


Oh, Patches

by Cyntax_Error



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls III
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Deceit, Drama, F/F, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Friendship, Gender unspecified reader, Hate, M/M, More characters to come, Other, Patches is an asshat, Revenge, Romance, Smut, Trauma, Violence, ambiguous reader, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22096582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyntax_Error/pseuds/Cyntax_Error
Summary: A one-shot and multi-part Patches fic collection.
Relationships: Ashen One/Unbreakable Patches (Dark Souls), Chosen Undead/Unbreakable Patches
Comments: 93
Kudos: 72





	1. Patches Gets More Than He Bargained For (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Discord!  
> Post-Nuclear Sweetheart#8297  
> Tumblr!   
> cyntaxerror-ao3

It was quiet - not that he mind, no, in fact he loved the silence sometimes - but it bored him. His favourite customer, the one who buys out his stock, hadn’t been around in some time. Sure there were other souls to keep him entertained; like that chatty Laurentius from the Great Swamp who seemed to find conversation with just about anyone, or that man with the big hat who would occasionally tip the brim of his hat to catch a glimpse whenever he thought Patches wasn’t looking, but none of them tickled Patches in the way the Chosen Undead did. 

He hadn’t noticed the Chosen Undead was female. The first they met was in the Tomb of the Giants, where everything was pitch black and the most he saw of her was her back when he booted her off a ledge and down into the darkness below. The second time was above in broad daylight where he now squats with his inventory. She approached him with a guarded aura, wearing an armour that was designed with the feminine body very much in mind. Ever since this realization, he has taken to calling her sweet pet names. Most women took kindly to being buttered up, and he had hoped the smaller woman with a scythe would feel the same. She was a woman of few words, and she never took her helm off, but she did offer him a bit of her identity: her name.

“Transient curse.”

An airy, almost quiet voice pulled Patches from his thoughts. His wide smile appeared across his smooth skin. “Ah,” he cooed. “so you’re back! I’ve stocked up and saved a few special trinkets - just for you, my darling.”

He peered up at the lady in dark armour. It was evident she preferred light apparel to move swiftly, and a long weapon to distance herself from danger.

“Transient curse.” She repeated. She tilted her head and placed a hand on her hip. “Do you have any?”

His hyena-like smile faltered for only a moment, before standing and inspecting his array of wares behind him. He very well knew he didn’t carry transient curses, but ever the sly one, he thought up a way to get his richest, quietest customer to talk.

As he sifted through the shelves of delicate bottles and jars of floating black humanities, Patches called over his shoulder. “Tell me, darling. What has you needing transient curses?”

He caught the way she twirled a lock of hair that escaped beneath her helm. Good, he thought, my pet names are working. 

“Ghosts.” She answered.

“New Londo, then?” She nodded. He only now noticed he had a foot of height on her. “Now what’s a little thing like you going down there for? Ain’t nothing but trouble for anyone.”

“I have to.” Was all she was willing to give. It was no matter to Patches. He had his ways of opening up even the hardest of clams. It also helped that she would often spend her time with Laurentius whenever she would take her time to rest here, and being the blabbermouth that he was, he now knew most of her little secrets.

“Tell me, my love, how long have you been hollow?”

It was some time before she replied. “...Long time.”

He whistled. “Long time. Brought to that asylum then, were you, dove?”

Her figure stiffened. “...I didn’t tell you that.”

She was wary; suspicious, and yet Patches kept his cool. He couldn’t rat out his second best source of information. “No need to, my love. Y’see that big crow up there?” 

Both their eyes wandered upwards towards the giant tree that filtered the incredibly bright sun that looked over Firelink shrine. There, perched atop a high pillar of the collapsed shrine ruins was the largest, blackest bird either had ever laid eyes on. Fortunate that big bird did it’s business away from the shrine and the undead residents.

“Ol’ girl told me.” He continued. “She’s fond of me. I feed her scraps I find. Lord knows we don’t need it!” and he belted out his loud, wicked cackle.

That seemed to visibly ease the Chosen Undead. She trusted that bird, as it never harmed her and brought her to and fro without issue. Patches, however, she was still on the fence about.

The bald man hmm’d and haw’d as he gave one final search. He turned to shrug at his best customer nonchalantly. “Seems I sold the last of ‘em.” As she turned to wordlessly step away, Patches loudly called behind. “Although,” She stopped herself in her tracks. “I could make a special trip and get you as many as you need. Say, next time you return?”

She turned to him. “Ten.”

Patches had to reign in the devious smile he had forming on his face. “Ten it is, my love,” He casually took a few steps towards her and threw an arm around her shoulders. “but it is quite the dangerous journey to get them. Souls just will not do! Instead,” he grinned at her. “we can work out a special payment. A trade, perhaps?”

It was several moments before she nodded. He chuckled, holding back from belting out another cackle. “Excellent.”


	2. I’ll Be With You at the End of Time - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stumble upon Lapp for the first time, and he sparks something within you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll Be With You at the End of Time is best accompanied with The Caretaker - Everywhere at the End of Time

You didn’t feel much these days - you haven’t felt much of anything these past few... was it years? Decades? You don’t bother to remember, not that you could, anyhow. There were no more of days creeping into nights, and the sky no longer cried. Everywhere you stepped was so dry, and the closest thing you encountered to soil was the ashes that would stick to your boots in clumps; wetted by the fluids of those who would see fit to stand in your way.

What faint memories you possessed felt more like echoes bouncing in your mind. A fleeting warmth you knew silly to cling to. The only things that were burned into your memory was the bright light that engulfed you and formed you into who you are now...

...and the souls of those who kept you company in your brief respites.

Another one crossed your path for the first time in what seemed like many, many lifetimes. Everywhere you stepped was covered in no less than a foot of ash, and towers of different castles collided to form bastardized versions of places you can recall for only a moment. But there, crouched low not unlike the wary docile hollow who choose to rest than to mindlessly battle, a bulky figure kneels along the remnants of a rockslide from eons ago. It was miraculously clear of any ash.

You approached them weapon drawn, ready to cut them down, but for some reason the figure didn’t move. They only turned their head and spoke.

You clutched at your chest and gasped. You collapsed into the ash, kicking up a thick cloud that coated your already dry mouth and made your eyes water. The ash never bothered you in this way before. Your innards felt as though they boiled inside you, but as quick as the burning sensation came, it disappeared, leaving a pained scorch in its place.

The figure, the man who introduced himself as Lapp, fell to his knees at your side and began to fret over you.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to cure your ailment,” You felt his large hands grab you by the shoulders and pull you back to lean against his chest plate. You could feel the burn in your chest linger beneath your skin. “but I find the ash does that to one such as us. You’ll live, won’t you?”

He chuckled after his rhetoric question. Even as you heaved for air to to fill your screaming lungs, he still kept that jesting tone about him.

Still kept. How could a stranger keep something up that you’ve never known before?

It feels like the first breath of air you’ve had in centuries, you told him. Your chest and eyes have never hurt like this before, you said.

You lifted your arms to your helm. The metal dome around your head felt like it was suffocating you. Watching you move a bit better than before, Lapp shifted away. You struggled for a moment with the rusted clasps at the back of your helm, but the moment they loosened, you threw your helmet away into the ash. When the clouds of the thick, velvety dust settled from around the two of you, you looked towards Lapp.

His helmet fell slightly, no longer standing tall on his now slumped shoulders. “Ah,” his voice wavered for only a moment before dropping to a sullen tone. “I see. So we’re both turning hollow.”

Turning hollow.

You reached out for Lapp’s bulky chest plate, and with your gloved fingers you brushed away the coating of white to reveal a dull reflection beneath. He didn’t turn away when you leaned forward. There, in your reflection, your greyed skin appeared just a tinge pinker, and your once completely sunken-in sockets now contained a glimmer of light.


	3. I’ll Be With You at the End of Time - Part 2

Amnesiac Lapp. That’s how you felt, too. Not a single name comes to mind, and the one he addressed himself by triggers nothing. No, but it was his voice that seemed to breathe life into you. It’s nice to listen to, you figure.

“What brings you to the end of the world, dove?”

You lifted your fixed gaze from the dying vines crawling up the cliff face you and your acquaintance sat at the foot of, and out to the bright swirling sky. A slender figure with enormous wings drifted languidly through the sky, watching over castle remnants as their caster’s duty once was. Nothing appeared beyond the white rolling fog.

You wander, you told him. Or, no, you’ve not spoken a word to him this entire time. Lapp was somehow in your head, listening to your thoughts and responding as if you’d used your mouth. You had your helmet on once more, so you didn’t mind flexing your jaw muscles while hiding beneath it. You can’t remember a time you’ve spoken - if you ever had the ability to.

“So your legs brought you to the Dreg Heap.” Lapp determined. He gave a half-spirited chuckle. “As all things do, it seems. Did Nan up there have a word with you?”

So that hunched over maid wrapped in cloths and a shell wasn’t just a figment of your imagination. You nodded.

“Give you that talk of “keeping your marbles together”, did she? Bah.” Lapp shook his head to the best of his ability in the stiff, frog-like helmet. A peculiar thing to wear without a horse and lance near. “We needn’t worry about that for much longer. I’ve come all this way,”

Lapp’s gloved fingers dove beneath the ashes and brought a fistful up, watching as the hollow remains rush out of his loosened grip. “and I’m not about to give up now.”

Lapp told you about the purging monument. A grand thing to cleanse oneself, be it the cloudiness of the mind or to eradicate any possibility of having lived once before. Being the inquisitive type, Lapp continued. “Perhaps even you could find use for it. That little twinkle in your eye tells me you’ve not lost it all up there, have you? It’s not too late for you.”

You didn’t understand what he meant. It was never too late. Time had stopped, or so it seemed, and there wasn’t anything to scrub yourself of. His continual use of the word “hollow” in the one-sided conversation seemed to be the very thing he sought to set himself free from. His contempt made it clear he found it akin to a slur.

“So what if we’ve got a screw loose!” Lapp scoffed, but a sudden warmth pulled your attention away from the fogginess of the end. Lapp lifted your hand from where it laid limp beside you, and squeezed it in his own. “We’ll keep one another on the right path, and when we’ve got all our memories, our names,” he stressed his desperation for your identities, “we’ll forge new ones, friend.”

While he was content to sit and dream further, that pulling in your body you’ve never been able to ignore drew your attention away from him. It’s time to continue, you told him, in your mind. You pulled your heavy body up from where you sat by his lantern, and he allowed your hand to slip from his. Something twitched in your chest. It was a small sting, but nothing like the lingering burning sensation. It seemed knowing, like you’d know this Lapp fellow would have no qualms seeing you off wherever your body felt magnetized to.

Leaving without so much of a word made you feel a certain way. You glanced over your shoulder at him, as much as your helmet would allow. Muscle memory guided your arm upward, bringing your elbow about even with your shoulder, and raised your hand to make a fist. He reciprocated your action.

It would be some time before you would come across one another again.

That same pulling force caused you to drop into what felt like the centre of the world and come out the other side to a slowly degrading city bathed in bright light and covered in flowers. The place before - the Dreg Heap? - was years in the past now. The foes here are much more formidable than... than what?

You took a moment to drink in the city from the spot those strange imps dropped you. How strange they were, that they would respond the very moment you thrusted the tattered banner you had forward at the edge of the cliff.

You spotted the welcoming glow of undisturbed embers not far down the stone staircase. As you made your way towards it, a weak hand darted out from the toppled boulders to snatch your ankle. Lying in a small patch of dirt, nestled among sparse white flowers and hidden from view by the boulders, a being that mirrored your exact frame wheezed out,

“They brought thee here, did they not?”

You nodded.

“Dost thou the gods serve? Or merely, that role affect?”

You opened your mouth beneath your helmet, but you couldn’t will yourself to speak.

“Art thou so gone that thy mandible hath seamed itself? Pity.”

Upon the crippled’s last words, you drew your sword. Pity your feeble form, you spoke. That word, pity, invoked an unexplainable rage within you, especially coming from one splayed in the dirt, clutching your boot.

But the pygmy did not flinch.

“Sheath thy weapon, for I am a true ally to thee.”

Something within you compelled you to obey.

He spoke to you of the flimsy prop that was Filianore; slumbering princess placed by the deceitful gods. You would seek out her church and awaken her to find a way towards the Dark Soul this dirty creature spoke of. The moment those words fell from his receding lips, “the Dark Soul”, pain swelled in your chest once more.

“But adept in errands, are we not? ‘Tis not the first form of nobility thoust sought.”

A vivid memory flashed in your mind. A pale white figure with flowing, faded tresses hunched over the body of a much more gargantuan man with equally white skin and greyed hair. He cried gold over his... his brother, and weaved together his soul with magics steeped in sunlight.

You kicked the pygmy’s hand away from your boot and fled towards the ancient bonfire.


	4. I’ll Be With You at the End of Time - Part 3

You opened your eyes. You fell asleep at the bonfire, you think, that was tucked away in the corner of a stone room below the ethereal archers that turned you into a pincushion. Your legs no longer screamed in agony from pushing yourself to sprint so far with such heavy metal plates on. You haven’t had to run quite like that since you ran across the rickety bridge within the ruins to chop it down and send an army of risen bones to their death... Why were you running, again?

You decided it didn’t matter anymore. You pulled yourself up by the vines that grew along the walls, but as you did, something caught your attention down a rather short corridor leading to a cliff face. You reached for the hilt of your blade, but stopped. Something within you stayed your hand and you approached the turned figure, making sure to clang your boots against the stone floor as not to spook the figure.

You passed through the archway and out into a large stone balcony jutting out from the cliff side beneath a large bridge. To your left below, you could see a town cluttered with flowers, and to your right, a swamp bubbling with strange, black liquid.

“Ah, I’m happy to see you in one piece!” He turned to you, greeting you as if you’d met before. “A blessing that we should seek the same place, and find ourselves standing here, together.”

You tilted your head. The tall figure’s shoulders visibly sagged. “Oh... You don’t remember me?”

No, you did remember him. He looked different than before; cleansed of the thick coat of white ash, revealing the darker grey armour beneath. You squinted your eyes. You opened your mouth, you willed yourself to speak... but not a sound came out that was loud enough for him to hear.

Instead, you patted your armoured lap. Lapp threw back his head and belted out a laugh.

“Yes!” He cheered and lifted his arms to bring you into an embrace. You stiffened at his touch, but he didn’t notice right away. “You’re beginning to remember me better than me.” He chuckled and set you free. Something about feeling warmth near you felt... good. You wouldn’t mind another.

Lapp turned away for a moment to reveal two mugs, and a waterskin. “I’ve got the last of my brew here. Let’s have our own little toast with it.”

He handed you one of the simple pewter mugs and poured out a frothy amber-coloured liquid from the waterskin and into your mug. You swished it’s around and brought it to the edge of your helmet to take a sniff. Smelled strongly of something particular that made your nose sting. He poured the same alcohol into his mug and let the now empty waterskin drop to the stone floor of the balcony.

“To my search,” he lifted his mug in the air. You hesitated a moment, but mirrored his action. “and to your duty, and to the joy that lies before us. Cheers!”

Lapp unclasped the tiny metal latch on his helmet with one hand and opened the top portion, revealing enough of his face to throw back his drink. You reached around to unclasp yours, but sadly your helmet didn’t open like that. You slipped off your helmet and gulped down all of Lapp’s brew.

It burned going down your throat, but the sensation immediately turned to a feeling of warmth sliding down your esophagus to radiate warmth from your stomach. The taste was familiar - spicy and strong.

“Dearie me,” you heard Lapp say. You licked your lips and brought the mug down to see what he was staring at. You could see a dark decay growing up from the left side of his cheek, up and over his nose. You didn’t expect him to be so bald and... strangely smooth. His now dark lips twitched upwards into a smile. “I believe you’re starting to look, well, almost normal.”

You lifted the helmet you had in your hand and gazed at your reflection in the metal. Your skin turned from it’s dark, wrinkly complexion to a shade that made you look terribly ill, and your eyeballs had finally emerged from the back of your skull as shaded orbs. You appeared more like a month old corpse than a rotted cadaver left to bake in the sun.

“Has your mind been clearer lately?” He asked. When you nodded, his brows pinched together upwards. “Still not able to speak then?”

You squeaked out a sound, but shook your head. You slipped your helmet on, and he did the same by flicking the top of his helmet down and clamping it shut.

“Boy, do I wish I had more of this.” Lapp hooked the handle of the mug around his finger and swung it about. “If I had a choice on how I lose memories, it’d have to be this way.”

You lifted the mug and looked at it quizzically. You tilted your head, then raised it to him.

Lapp looked at you through the slit in his helmet for a moment, before giving a stunned laugh, “You mean you drank it without knowing what it was? I could have poisoned you, for all you know.”

You inspected the empty mug. Something in you told you it was highly doubtful.

Lapp continued. “Picked up the recipe from, erm,” he snapped his fingers of his free hand. “a peculiar bloke. Alright chap, easy enough to... to...” his hand flew to his helmet, to imitate the action of holding his head. “I... Is it odd I want to call him an onion?”

For some reason his remark about this “onion bloke” tickled you in your ribs, and so badly did this sudden urge to laugh come over you. You were able to stifle out a quiet chortle. Your throat was still so dry and sore.

“I don’t think he’d much like to be called an onion.” Lapp said. The warmth from the alcohol you drank slowly creeped up from your stomach and into your chest. “It’s a... I think he called it a Siegbrau. It certainly tastes like a cup of victory.” Lapp took your mug from your hands and set it atop the deflated waterskin. “I would ask if we met before, when I was fully here, but judging by our current states I don’t think we could answer, even if we’d like to.”

Lapp suggested a small break at the bonfire, before setting off once more. You both sat, backs leaned against the stone wall of the interior room in the corner, basking in its comforting warmth. This break was extended a bit more than intended, and as the time went on you found yourself scooting closer to Lapp, and he found it to be suiting to throw an arm around you. He played with the idea of meeting you before, but try as you might, not a single memory of him came to surface.

“Perhaps in passing.” He suggested. “Or we were acquaintances long ago.”

You were feeling pulled in by the warmth of the bonfire. It wasn’t the most comfortable, leaning against a man in a bulky suit of armour, but you didn’t care. “Suppose it doesn’t matter right now. Once I find that Purging Monument, we’ll have our answer. Everything will come back to me. Who I was, what I lived for, what my name was, and...”

He paused. “what terrible grudges I had.”

You shifted slightly to stare up at Lapp. He shrugged the best he could. “I dunno, I just have this feeling... That that’s the kind of man I was.” His tone picked up to one of jest. “Oh, but don’t hold it against me, dove. I only think I was!”

After a few silent minutes of staring into the fire, Lapp shifted and stood from where he could remain seated forever. He explained it was about time he set off and bid you farewell. Just as he turned, he raised his arm to give you the same gesture you had given him. You reciprocated, and he was gone.

You stumbled up from your seated position and made your way out onto the balcony once more. You gripped the crumbling stone rail as tight as you could, and stared out into the bubbling swamp. You closed your eyes, and you could almost hear the darkness call to you.


	5. I’ll Be With You at the End of Time - Final

Black, viscous liquid bubbled along the surface of the rocks that jutted out of the abyssal swamp. You stood just at the edge, a peculiar birch branch in hand.

_“Oh, hello there.” The bulky armour slumped over in a wooden arm chair raised it’s tall necked helmet to stare at the figure who stumbled in. You recognized the armour, and the name attached, thus the twinge in your chest deepened. “Have- Have we met before? I’m-“_

_The male voice within the armour stopped himself to heave a distressed sigh, and slumped his helmet in his hands. “I- I almost forgot you, dove.” His voice wavered. “Oh, gods, forgive me.”_

_He brought his hands away from his helmet. They slowly balled into fists, and unfurled, as if testing the movement of his joints. “I can’t find the bloody thing.” He whispered. “I’ve searched high and low.”_

_You couldn’t quite place your finger on the thing he was looking for. It was a tall thing; a monument of sorts, you thought._

_“What… What if it was never here in the first place?” He questioned his own sanity aloud. “You wouldn’t have happened upon it, would you?”_

_To Lapp’s dismay, you shook your head._

_“Perhaps I should just forget it- forget it all. Like a good hollow would.”_

_The metallic ring from his helmet made you question if it was another sigh he let out, or a quiet sob._

_“Stop. Damn it all, stop it!” He urged to himself, giving the side of his helmet a swift bang of his fist. It was almost as if he had forgotten your presence. “I’m unbreakable; unbreakable, you hear? ...What- What was I doing…?”_

Your thumb ran along the nearly smooth edge of the branch, feeling the subtle ridges in the bark. It felt so warm in your hold, and comforted you when you first arose from your tomb a failure; an unkindled. Your first possession, one that assured you warmth when there was no fire near, and one that gave you a precious distant memory of a friend you were only able to remember after witnessing your only living friend struggling to grasp at memories.

You brought the branch to your chest and clutched it close with both hands. Even before losing yourself so much, you were never able to remember who the memory of this distant friend was, or why they gave you this branch as your burial gift.

_Show your humanity._

You sent a silent thank you to the heavens above, to your friend of lifetimes ago, and an apology, for using their gift to save another’s life.

You stepped into the bubbling liquid, knee deep, and snapped the white birch branch.

-

You raced back to him as fast as your legs could carry you. You leapt over the discarded weapons left behind by your fallen enemies, and finally skidded into the round room covered in vines and decaying flowers. Lapp lifted his hanging head from where he sat on the old, wooden chair, and jolted when you collapsed to your knees between his legs. You fumbled violently with the rusted clasp at the back of her helmet, but finally managed to fling it off, much like you did when you first met him.

You could hear his shaking breath beneath his helm as he lifted his hands to cradle your now human face in his gloved hands.

“My,” he whispered. “look at you, dove. You’re so... so beautiful.” His fingers tenderly rubbed your rosy cheeks, and you felt yourself leaning into his touch.

“Lapp,” you cooed up at him. “I found it.”

His fingers trailed along up your scalp to feel your hair. You clutched his wrists and sighed. “I was beginning to think I may never hear you speak. You sound like a dream - better than I ever thought. Just... wow.” he let tresses of your hair fall from between his fingers. “Won’t you come with me to the monument?”

Your heart sank. So badly did you wish to stay in this moment longer with Lapp and not have to see Patches ever again. “I... I cannot.” You whispered. “It was never my journey to make. Mine is elsewhere.”

You didn’t want to be anywhere near Lapp when he would have all his memories flood back to him, and reel away from you in disgust. You were never friends, well, not good friends, and you would never admit it aloud but you fell in love with how soft he was with you.

“I will find you again, once your memories have returned,” you continued. “and we shall settle ourselves once and for all.”

Lapp’s helmet tilted. “Settle ourselves? What do you mean?”

You couldn’t help the sad little smile that surfaced to your lips. You buried your cheek further into his hand, soaking up whatever warmth he radiated for the last time. “We knew each other once, and we didn’t quite have the sort of relationship we do now.”

“Dash it - Dash it all!” Lapp spat. “I don’t care for whatever we were before; enemies or sworn rivals, it doesn’t matter. You have been nothing but a guiding light, keeping my head on and all. I swear to you, upon my birth name, that I am your friend. It doesn’t matter what I- we, were, or what we might come out as. Please, do me the honour of allowing me to be a true friend to you, always.”

You stared into one another’s eyes through the slit in his helmet. You released the light grip you held on his wrists, and reached up to remove his helmet from his shoulders. Your stomach churned upon seeing how far Hollow he had become. The dark plague had completely overtaken his left eye and threatened to swallow his right.

You bit back a pained sigh. You wanted to accept his pledge, and yet, “Please, hurry to the monument, before it’s too late.” you begged.

Lapp took his helmet from your grasp and tossed it aside. “You must allow me to be a true friend to you.”

You shook your head. “Go now, before you lose yourself.”

“Sweeting,” he spoke softly. You remembered that’s what he used to call you, long ago when he would sell you the odd end here and there. “there’s not a chance in hell I could ever turn completely Hollow in your arms.”

His sweet sentiment caused you to smile and pulled a small laugh from you. “You’ll remember everything you’ve said to me, you know. As Lapp.”

“That’s what I was hoping for.” He whispered. You closed your eyes and took in the feeling of his fingers coming back to gently caress your cheeks. “Might I kiss you, dove?”

You opened your eyes. He stammered at the look you gave him. “If- If what you say is true, then I’d like to kiss you when I mean it most.” He gave you a sheepish laugh.

Lapp knelt down off his chair when you nodded, pulling you closer between his knees to his chest by your shoulders. His lips felt as textured as they looked, but not rough. You felt a light puff of warm air escape his nostrils; he sighed dreamily into your kiss. Heat slowly crept up from your abdomen and made its way into your healthy cheeks.

It took you a moment comprehend what Lapp was staring at when you broke the kiss and slowly pulled away. He grinned at the sight of you. “That’s the sort of pink I’d like to make you turn all over,” he chuckled quietly, “but that’ll wait for another day. Hopefully one soon, my treasure. I’m off.”

He leaned in once more to plant a quick kiss on your lips before pulling away and grabbing his helmet he tossed away. You remained seated on your knees as you watched Lapp stand to full height.

“In the side streets, by the sunken church, go up the ladder and across the way until you come to a set of stairs. The monument is just over the bridge.” You spoke up to him.

He bade you one last fond farewell with a squeeze of your hand, and he was gone. You were left to slump forward and rest your head on the seat of the chair he once sat at; left to mourn over the loss of the sweetest man you had come to know, and the man you fell in love with. You sighed. You would be dealing with Patches, soon enough, and who knew how he’d take everything that transpired between you two. Would he mock you? Would he rely on his signature trick of booting you from an elevated surface, or trap you somewhere to rot? However he would return to you, you weren’t excited about it.

With heavy heart, you stood from where you slumped over and reached for your helmet. Perhaps there was a chance you never had to see him again.

But oh, you were wrong, and in your silent mourning Lapp had managed to make it to the monument in one piece, and as deftly as he came, he left to continue his life’s purpose. Starting with you.

You dashed into the cave, just in time to feel the metal plate of your armour become uncomfortably hot from the giant dragon’s breath. Midir, that mousey priestess Shera, told you about from behind a set of doors. A once powerful ally, overcome with the abyss.

A hunched over, shrivelled old woman stood before you in a set of crumbling spiral stairs, carved out of the wall. You slipped a foot in front of the unsuspecting hollow’s ankle and gave her a swift push, knocking her over into the pit at the centre of the spiral stairs.

A little piece of muted, dark red cloth caught your eye. Flittering in the updraft coming from the pit, a ripped strip of cape hung over the ledge of a half-collapsed landing just across the way. You maneuvered yourself over a crumbled wall to the landing, only to find an alcove filled with ash, webs, candles... and Lapp, crouched low into a squat.

You stayed frozen long enough to see his helmet lift to gaze at you, then took off the way you came. You managed to just clamour to the top of the collapsed wall before you heard, “Where’re you going, love?”

You spared him the briefest of glances before shakily climbing off the unsteady heap of stone. You could hear his armour clank behind as he pursued you. You heard his metallic laugh from within his helmet.

“Oh, I see.” He chuckled darkly. “Playing hard to get, my treasure? I like this game.” When he stalked you to the lip of the tunnel you escaped the dragon in, he stopped. “What? You’d rather face that big bird than have our little reunion? Don’t remember me?”

You stiffly turned to spit venom at him, then stopped yourself. You glared through the slit in your helmet, then turned to poke your head out of the tunnel in the mountain to search the skies for the massive dragon.

“What’s this?” You could hear his steps approach from behind, but it wasn’t safe to dart out. Not yet. “Back to being that mute little thing like before? What’s wrong; you were awful chatty with me just a little bit ago.”

You mentally kicked yourself for ever speaking a word to him. It only gave him ammunition to toy with your feelings. You sprinted out, going back towards the foot of the mountain trail and back to the side streets.

“Wait- wait!” You heard him call, but his voice was drowned out by the vibrations of wings flapping and the sharp inhale of the fiery beast swooping down along the trail.

A pair of hands gripped you hard on the forearms and sent you crashing down against a solid metal surface that landed against fallen boulders along the path. Fire burned the sky, causing a flash of sweat beneath your armour that threatened to boil you alive.

“You damnable fool!” The person who tackled you down hissed. You drew a shaky breath, and rested your head back against the metal plate of Lapp’s armour. His grip released your forearms, and you both heaved with adrenaline. “Don’t tell me I make you so suicidal.”

“Why did you save me?” You asked in a quiet, shaking voice.

“And let that bird burn you to nothing but a pile of ash? Good to know you think so highly of me, love.”

“The Patches I know would have let me die.” You hissed.

This was when his helmet tilted, in the same way it did whenever he couldn’t remember something. “Well, he sounds like a right bastard, but I don’t know what he has to do with us. Friend of yours?”

You wiggled yourself around to peer through your eye slit and into his. From what little you could see, it appeared as though his eyes were squinted, as if he were smiling. “Lapp...? But-“

The echoing of Midir’s mangled roar bounced along the exterior of the mountain. He was coming back around.

“Let’s get back in, love.” He spoke the best he could in your ear and hoisted you up to your feet to hurry back up the path and into the mouth of the tunnel. You were quicker this time, as you had a solid two seconds before Midir came by with a flurry of fire.

“Lapp-“ you started, but was cut off by Lapp grasping your hand in his and leading you back over the collapsed wall.

“Just a moment, love.” He assured you. “I just want us in private.”

“I don’t understand!” You exclaimed. You both made it over the collapsed wall, but halted your movements at the landing above the strip of flittering cloth. “You used it, did you not? The monument? You should have all your memories.”

“Of course I do, love.” Lapp trailed his hand up from yours along your arm. He took a step closer. “I remember how you were a lost little lamb, stumbling through this horrid world of ash.” He brought his other hand up to your shoulder, and threatened to caress the exposed skin between chest plate and helmet. “I remember how, even hollowed, you clung to me for warmth, and I remember that lovely little moment we shared.”

You could almost hear the smile in his voice. “I really do need to thank you. Were it not for you,” he said, “I may have never gotten my head on straight.”

“Please, my love. Let me show you my gratitude.”

His soft touches and sweet tone won you over. You nodded, and you could sense a smile grow beneath his helmet. His hand that trailed up your arm came across your shoulder to guide you closer into his embrace, while his other stroked the tender flesh of your neck beneath your helmet. You couldn’t hold the shaky whimper that bubbled from your chest and out of your lips.

“Oh, my love,” Lapp languidly spun you around to press your back against his chest plate, and drag his gloved fingers to your shoulders. “perhaps one day,” he breathed quietly beside your helmet, as if whispering into your ear. “you’ll rid yourself of all your worldly wants, you greedy guts.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Patch-“

You gazed over your shoulder just in time to watch him rip away his grip and lift his knee. Blunt, terrible pain planted itself in your lower back, and you were faced with the swirling blackness of the unknown abyss below.

Your knees collided with the fragile stone landing below, just barely an inch from the edge of the platform. You gasped for the air that was kicked out of you, but the hyena-like cackle that filled the swirling stairwell plagued your mind.

“And a fine dark soul, to you,” he waved, in cocky farewell, a flight above you. “my dove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: you were Lapp’s dove, and Patches’ love.


	6. I’ll Be With You at the End of Time - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some creative liberty with the summoning mechanic. If it’s not how you imagined, I apologize.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there; crouched low into a ball, knees tucked up to your breastplate and your gloved fingers covering your face. Your helmet lay discarded in a small crater in the brickwork of the temple that mossy, stagnant water pooled into. Before you in the circular room stood the mighty statue of Gwyn, dead centre of the room, bestowing an empty hand to the crumbling statue of a figure you imitated, and a jagged crown that seemed to be a poor mock-up of his own, in the other.

It’s been a few hours, you think. Or days. You were never certain of the passage of time at the end of the world, not when the sun would always penetrate the fluffy curtain of clouds and rain down its vibrant, heavenly light. Night would never set. It was as if here time was just as convoluted, even more so, than when you dethroned- who was it again? A… Lord? A soul, perhaps?

“Stop it.” You seethed quietly to yourself. You could feel the condensation of your breaths that gathered on your fingers as your lips moved against your hands. “I’m- I’m just upset. Just upset. I remember. I remember.”

Just think, you thought to yourself. You willed your laboured breaths to calm into a slow, steady intake of air, and wandered back to the days of the only life that mattered. Visions of a defeated figure wearing king’s plate danced above your head, as well as a pale woman covered head to toe in soot, with fingers gnarled and twisted from severe burns. They didn’t have names - none that you could come up with. None of the figures in your head did.

Next came a silly man dressed head to toe in the most rotund armour you had ever seen. His shoulders shook and the onion-like helmet leaned back, as if he were laughing at something the old pyromancer, dressed in rags and animal hides, said. Behind the two jolly fellows, a man in dark attire and dark hair read aloud from his tome to a woman dressed in cream and white robes, whose eyes were glazed over. A peculiar figure behind them that resembled a gargoyle, hid in the shadows and kept a keen eye on the blind woman. And lastly, a skinny man with a hat pulled completely over his face, squatted next to the blind nun and before the scholar.

There were a few other faint figures that haunted your vision, and you swore you could hear the rhythmic banging of a hammer. The memory of your old allies calmed you enough to even out your breathing.

The dull, existential emptiness continued to plague your innards. It felt as though you exhaled abyss with each breath. A spike of paranoia made you gently pinch your cheeks. Still smooth. You opened and closed your mouth. You weren’t hollow right now, and certainly not so far gone that your mouth nearly fused closed like before. There was a single case you’d ever seen someone so severely hollowed that their lips were permanently curled back, and their mouth formed a massive crater in their face.

The fear of turning out like that again filled you with fright. You ripped your hands away from your face and hugged your sides. Your mind wandered back to Lapp, like it would again and again before you devolved into another crying fit. You thought about his kind, encouraging words, his warm and generally positive demeanour. Your stomach twisted at the memory of your meeting, and how quick you were to try to cut him down before even speaking to him.

The urge to scratch at your skin overcame you at the realization that the person who would feed you to a giant was also the person to be your guiding light, and your reason to better yourself. But there was no fooling yourself. You knew if he found you and offered you that obviously fake smile that bordered on a snarl, you would take his hand and gladly follow him - and it was that very reason you peaked around corners in your venture this far, lest you found him again like you had before. If he would just hold you close and call you dove one more time, you would follow him til the end of time.

Over the course of what felt like hours, you managed to wipe your helmet off and don it again, and shifted closer and closer to the stone archway leading out to a rocky pathway that soaked up the golden sunlight. Up along the cliff you emerged out on was a cathedral. High above, jutting out of the belfry was a set of stairs, you noticed, that led to a large dome above the painted crystal window. There was a figure in pitch black armour with the burning ensignia of your shared curse on its chest. It wielded two giant, intimidating swords.

That same dull emptiness panged in your chest as you stood tall from your slumped over position against he archway, and drew your sword from the sheath. This Knight was particularly more difficult than the other Ringed Knights, as you’ve come to affectionately call them. Once its body fell hard in a heap, you reached for the glowing bottle that radiated warmth. You brought it to your lips and felt delightful warmth flood between your lips and down your throat like a thick, warm soup, until it dissipated into nothing midway down. Instantly you felt better. You looked at the bottle and gave it a small shake. The orange, ethereal ichor was very nearly depleted.

You didn’t have time to think about it, you decided. The doors of the cathedral were calling you, and as you approached a deep, haunting voice warned you away from the place. But naturally, you ignored it.

You laid all your weight into pushing open the tall, heavy doors to the cathedral. Finally the doors opened to flood the narthex with sunlight, and to split the stagnant air. You paused at the facade, looking inward past the lobby of the cathedral to see a figure, the size of a tower within, cloaked in white.

Without a second thought you unsheathed your sword once more and stepped in. The heavy doors slammed shut behind you, from what felt like a flurry of wind that originated from within the cathedral. Darkness fell, and only the muted haze of light from the dusted over windows, would cast a glow across the tiled floor.

But then a white glow over your shoulder caught your attention.

You turned to inspect the source of the light and placed your sword back in it’s sheath. Tucked away to the left of the double doors, well hidden between a statue and the once open door, was a shimmering signature on the ground. You squint your eyes to make out the name, but the combination of the blinding light and the messily scrawled handwriting made the name illegible.

Just as you ghosted your hand over the name, the ethereal spectre appeared on it. You were forearm deep in the chest of the soft white phantom, who possessed a ridiculously large looking shield, and a strange… halberd? you had not seen before, slung over his back. Your eyes travelled up the figure, until your sights landed on a hyaena-like grin, a large nose, and a memorable bald head.

You snatched your arm away and stumbled back. Patches’ ghost stood, grinning at you, with a welcoming arm outstretched towards you. He was awaiting your response just across the incredibly thin barrier of your worlds. You swore for a moment you saw his mouth move to form a single word.

You glanced over your shoulder at the large figure clad in white. If there was one thing you learned in your travels, it was that size doesn’t equate to power, but you would be damned to come so far in your journey to… to do something, you were sure, and then be cut down.

You looked back at Patches who kept his arm out for you. Anxiety flooded your chest, and your throat felt like it would close in on itself at any moment. But a certain feeling was absent - that dull throbbing of emptiness was gone.

You reached out for Patches’ hand, and grasped it. You willed his solid form, his warmth, into existence. Your hand that you kept semi-open around his, was slowly filled out by a solid figure, stretching your fingers open to grasp yours in return. You closed your eyes.

“Hello, love.” You heard Patches say. You didn’t dare look at him. “Not still mad with me, are you?”

When you didn’t respond, Patches lowered his shield to the ground and lifted the bottom of your helmet to turn your head up to face him. You finally opened your eyes. “Come now,” he whispered. “it’s only in my nature to pull the sheet over the eyes of the slow ones. Surely you can’t fault a man for the way he is.”

“Answer me this.” you started quietly. You looked away through the eye slits in your helmet. “Your nature… was Lapp a part of that?”

Patches remained silent, but only for a moment. “I hate to admit it… but yeah. Yeah, I think he is.” He thumb rubbed the side of your hand. You still held each other.

“Then- Then everything Lapp said-“

“Oh love,” he groaned. “you’re going to drag it out of me, aren’t you?” When you nodded, he sighed. “You truly are an insatiable wench.” 

His remark about you tugged at the side of your lips. You smiled only a little bit. Patches released his hand from yours to wrap around to the back of your helmet. He fiddled with the clasps, and pulled the helmet off your head. It fell to the ground with a clang. His gloved fingers came up to tangle themselves in your hair, and his thumbs lightly ran along the sides of your cheeks. “Although I have not a single want for material desires, there is a thing that passes through my mind from time to time.”

You followed him as he gently brought you back towards the corner, tucked away behind one of the statues that lined the lobby.

“What might that be?” You asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Company.” He said, and tilted his head down to rest his forehead against yours. “I won’t repeat what that sappy bloke told you,” Patches said with a small grin. “but it’s true. All of it. If you can’t believe me, you can believe him.”

“I do.” You whispered. “I believe him.”

The eerie thoughts of inevitablity crept through your skull, as they did less than an hour before. “We don’t have much time.” You told him.

“I know.” He whispered in return. “And we’ll meet again. But… But there will be no purging monument.” He said with quiet certainty. “There will be no silly trinkets to jog my memory. We’ll meet,” he promised you. “and we won’t even know it.”

You opened your eyes and adjusted your head to look up into his eyes. “There’s such a place beyond the end of the world?”

Patches shrugged. “Perhaps. Maybe not.”

The frightful thought of forgetting him again made your chest tighten the same way you felt when his very voice knocked a clue into your head about who he was. You moved to place your head against his chest, and your hands clutched the leather of his armour. Pain pricked your eyes, but no tears were able to fall. The dull throbbing of emptiness may have been gone for now, but in its place stood a stinging terror that made your mind and heart race in the worst way possible, and only for a second did you think that the dull emptiness inside you felt better than the painful paranoia plaguing your head.

“Don’t you be getting existential on me now, my love.” Patches dipped his head low to whisper into your ear. “You’re here, and I want to make every second last.”

He shifted to lift your gaze up to his, and placed his lips upon yours. What little time you had together, you both felt determined to savour every second you defiled the holy sanctity of the cathedral with your love making.


	7. A Scoundrel’s Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patches honours his promise.

_“Why-“ Patches took a moment to pant out a few breaths, and rub away the blood leaking from his split cheek. “Why’d you do that? You could’ve been killed, you sorry fool.”_

_“I know,” the hunched over pale man with a peculiar hat covering his face said. “but you looked to have been in a tight spot. The name is Greirat.” He offered his hand to the bald man laid out against a box in the small fort ruins. His hat obscured every facial feature - even the eye holes sloppily cut out of the hat seemed to be blacked out._

_Patches reached to shake his hand, but noticed Greirat held out a knitted handkerchief instead. “You can call me Patches.” He held the handkerchief over his cut. “I owe ya.”_

That small memory flashed through Patches’ mind when the Ashen One approached him, asking if their little scavenger Greirat had returned.

“Not curled up in the dankest part of the sanctuary, is he?” Patches offered his suggestion on where he could be instead. The Ashen One shook their head, and said that Greirat had gone to Irithyll.

Patches kept a neutral air about him and told the Ashen One to wait another day longer. Internally, Patches had been struck with the stomach-churning flash of extreme worry.

Patches was not one to promise the day to anyone, nor did he promise little acts of kindness, nor did he ever offer anything in return for nothing. Just the same, no one had ever gone out of their way to perform an act of kindness for him, and no one had offered something in return for nothing. All except Greirat. The selfless scavenger had risked his life without a second thought, all to save the arrogant troll who spent his days punishing people he saw fit to receive his wrath. He had chosen the wrong person to invoke his wrath upon, but by some miraculous force, Greirat saw Patches deserving of safety.

Not one to be tied to earthly debts, Patches offered to repay his by way of equal exchange. “You saved my hide, I’ll save yours.” he told him.

But there was one glaring issue with the rescue plan. He was fresh out of armour. “God’s blood,” he muttered in disbelief to himself as he searched through his inventory of goods for any shred of sturdy enough armour. “I must have sold it off.”

The leather armour he currently wore wouldn’t be enough to withstand any blow dealt by the tyrannical Sulyvhan’s guard. It was, however, light enough to outrun Sulyvhan’s pup, as he affectionately referred to it, that guarded the bridge into Irithyll.

“Well,” he continued to speak to himself as he rubbed his chin. “maybe I’ll come across some dead fool’s armour…” He shook his head. No, no that was a terrible idea - relying on luck like that. The memory flashed through his head again, and the realization that Greirat wore nothing more but tattered cloth made Patches grind his teeth with indecision. If the skinny man can wear just scraps and throw his life on the line like that, so can the better built man.

“Alright, you don’t do it now and he dies, then-“ Patches groaned to himself. “-you’ll be stuck taking that debt to your grave.”

He paced back and forth before the mountain of items he had accumulated. “Fuck.” He swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, mother- fuck!” His voice raised with each word, until it echoed loud enough to startle the Firekeeper and Hawkwood out of his usual melancholic haze.

It was settled. He would attempt a rescue mission. With the souls he scrounged up, he paid a visit to the Shrine Maiden who had more than a few witty remarks. He ignored her abrasiveness for now and bought a few items he thought would make up for the lack of protection; green blossoms, a birch branch, and other such items.

He said not a single word to anyone. He brushed past the Firekeeper who, although without vision, watched on as the secretive man finally left the shrine.

-

The journey to Irithyll was one he took several times. He knew the ins and outs of the roads and where most hollowed undead hung about. Each time he was faced with the conundrum of taking the bridge and facing the beast, or scaling the perilous, slippery rocks down to the river and freezing.

From his vantage point among the pine trees that sprouted out from the top of the cliffs, Patches crouched low and watched as the alligator maw of the patrolling beast would spark up every now and again with lightning. He couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of going toe-to-toe with that ghastly beast. He had seen the way lightning burns before. It leaves jagged and black flesh in its wake, with skin still hot to the touch. Nothing like the burning of flames.

As arrogant as he was, Patches wasn’t an idiot. He settled for the slippery cliff, instead.

The slick, ice coated steps that lead into the water on the other side of the river would bring him up through the underworld of Irithyll. No doubt Greirat was looting the houses that contained no end of priceless pieces belonging to nobility.

Patches managed to scale down the cliff side without slipping, and slowly entered the water. Despite being undead, he could still feel the cold biting at his flesh and the numb sensation settle in his toes. He clenched his teeth as tight as he possibly could, and began to wade through the thigh deep water along the bank toward the steps across the way.

The sound of splashing water caught Patches’ attention. It was much more erratic and louder than the water he pushed around with his steps.

“What-“

The ground began to rumble, vibrating the water that stretched all across the river. The ear-piercing sound of what sounded like harsh wind blowing through a small slit resounded just behind Patches. He spun as quickly as he could in the semi-frozen water, and behind him the canine-like beast, twice the size of a human with a long snout filled with sharp teeth, stood on its hind legs. It inhaled, and at the back of its throat sparks of blinding light crackled.

Patches dove under the water, the lightning narrowly missing his head and instead hit the water, scattering all along the surface. Sparing no time, Patches kicked and thrashed his arms wildly in an attempt to swim out from the beast’s legs submerged in the water. He broke the surface with a gasp.

His movements weren’t quick enough, and a tooth of the beast caught Patches’ arm, flinging him through the air. A bloody gash was left behind. Patches landed on a chunk of solid ice floating in the water, close to the archway of the city’s undercroft.

The undercroft. That’s it!

The forceful landing knocked the air out of him, but he knew he didn’t have much time to recover. He rolled off the ice and into the water again, his arm stinging terribly. He ran through the water, skipping awkwardly to get above the thigh high sloshing. Just as he entered, the hot breath of the beast blew at the back of his neck. Patches dove for cover in the water as another bolt of lightning shot just above his head. He crawled through the water, digging his fingers into the earth beneath to gain enough traction and quickly get out of harm’s way. He crawled for cover to the right of the archway tunnel, and out of the beast’s sights.

He held the cut on his arm firm and heaved as quietly as he could. He peeked out from the stone archway, just enough to spot the beast sticking its long maw into the tunnel, sniffing around. It stopped suddenly. It couldn’t fit.

Patches nearly fell over into the now knee deep water of the undercroft, and sighed in relief. He remained as still as he could until the beast finally got bored and left. He looked around the undercroft he escaped into. Pillars of stone arched over him, holding up the city above. Bent metal spikes that served as little barricades sat tipped over and some discarded in the water. Who knew what they were for, but near them plants grew. Lastly, he noticed long, thin white skeletal bodies of strange insect-like creatures with long black hair. They laid face down in the water, dead. Someone had been here before.

Patches pushed himself up along the stone wall he sat against and made his way toward what he saw was a set of stairs that lead up to an alcove that hosted a faint, warm light. He limped himself up the stairs, and saw that it wasn’t an alcove at all. It was a kitchen, with a massive fireplace that roared with flames, and sat cross-legged before the flames were two distinct silhouettes; a rotund body with what looked like a mug in hand across from a small, thin body with a strange long hat who also held a mug.

Greirat was the first to hear his footsteps, and turned in surprise. “Oh,” he certainly sounded startled. “hello there.” He saw Patches’ arm and shook his head. “What brings you out here? You’re injured.”

“What what? Someone’s hurt?” Siegward turned his head the best he could in his armour towards the steps to the undercroft. “Well come on in, then!” Siegward rocked his body back and forth a few times before gaining the momentum to roll forward onto his feet. Patches watched on as the round knight plucked a pewter mug off the counter across the room and filled it with a thick, glowing liquid that sat steaming in the cauldron beside it.

“Here you are, old boy. My famous estus soup!” Siegward didn’t allow Patches to refute and shoved the mug, filled to the brim with the hot glowing liquid, into his free hand. “Drink up! That will set you right as rain.”

Patches gave it an experimental sniff. It smelled delectable enough, then gave it a taste. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. Patches greedily downed the mug, and as he drank the pain faded into nothing.

“Say,” Siegward started. Patches hadn’t noticed he stood examining his figure. “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“You’ve met the terrible Patches before, have you, Siegward?” Greirat teased from his place by the fire.

Siegward mulled Patches’ name over by repeating it, but Patches hurriedly intervened. “Can’t say I’ve come across you, old boy.” He mocked Siegward’s affectionate nickname. He pushed past Siegward, who remained lost in his memory. “Greirat!” Patches called loudly with his arms spread wide as he approached the warm fire. He was finally beginning to dry. “How’ve you been?”

“Better now.” He answered, but tilted his head. “Did that beast rough you up a bit?”

Patches scoffed at the notion. “What, you think Sulyvhan’s dog can get the better of ol’ Patches? Think again, friend.” Meanwhile, Siegward was audibly humming in thought now.

“That gash on your arm proved otherwise.” Greirat pointed out playfully. He held no ounce of malice in his voice.

Patches squatted low before the flames. “‘Tis but a scratch. All healed up now.” He took this moment to divert the conversation. “That Ashen Tart told me you’d been here a while.”

It was made clear to Greirat why Patches had come all this way. Greirat chuckled gleefully beneath the hat he wore over his face. “Oh, oh ho ho, I see.”

Patches furrowed his brow. “What you laughing at?”

“I’m tickled you would come all this way for the life of a lowly thief.”

“I- I did not!” Patches huffed and took a sip from his mug - only to remember he had drank it all. “Lots of goods out here in rich people’s homes.”

“You can lie better than that - I know it.”

Patches growled out, “What of it?”

“Ah!” Siegward snapped his fingers the best he could through his gloves, catching the other two men’s attention. “I remember where I met you, old boy.”

As Siegward approached, the urge to bolt grew in Patches. Instead, he feigned an uneasy grin. “Oh? Where’s that, then?”

“I had been made a fool of by someone with that same bald dome of yours-“

“Now wait just a minute-“

“-and they stole this very armour.” Siegward gestured to his body. “Dear Ashen One found it and tossed it in the well that dastardly con-artist pushed me down.”

Siegward stopped before his old spot by the fire, and took his seat. “Now if my memory serves correct, I believe that scoundrel took the same name. He even had that big nose of yours.”

Silence settled among the three. Patches eyed up the Zewihander strapped to Siegward’s back. He tried to look him in the eye, but the slit in his helmet was too tiny to properly tell what expression the usually jolly man possessed.

“But you came here for your friend, didn’t you?” Siegward finally inquired after several moments of silent tension. “No one can truly be bad if they journey far for their friend’s safety. All is forgiven, so long as you don’t do that again.”

Patches released the breath he didn’t know he held. “This bloke saved you, did he?”

Greirat nodded. “And what a tight spot I was in.” He said. “I was running from that ghastly beast and fled into that low space you came from. I was cornered by those monsters.”

“And I was in here, trying to take a well needed nap.” Siegward declared. “But then I heard all the commotion, and knew those spidered women had someone in their trap.”

“So I was too late. Ah well,” Patches sighed, but put on a playful smile. “suppose I still need to hold up my end of the bargain.” He said to Greirat.

“I think coming here for me is plenty payback. You and your conscious are off the hook - not that you have much of one to begin with.”

Silence settled among them once more as they stared into the fire. This time the air wasn’t hostile, but instead, peaceful.

“So,” Siegward interrupted the peaceful moment. “who wants more soup?”


	8. Ideas

Hello everyone!

I just wanted to drop in and let you all know that I’m taking Patches-related requests! ReaderxPatches, CharacterxPatches, or him just interacting with NPCs. Whatever the hell you want!

And thank you guys for all the kudos. There aren’t many Patches related fics out there, and I hope this can satisfy you guys.

See you soon!


	9. Patches Becomes a Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patches ends up adopting an unlikely being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A writing warm-up I thought I’d post, as I have no new Patches content for the moment, because I’ve been researching Spider Patches.
> 
> This one is not edited.

There are many strange creatures that reside in the land of Lordran. Some big, some small, some elusive, and some obnoxious in their population. There are some even subject to legend that live solitary lives in mountains that only exist within dreams. Most are grotesque beings, while others are cute. Deceptively cute.

One prime example of deceptive cuteness would be the crystal lizards. No, not those overgrown nasties that created armour-piercing crystals in their wake, and rolled over their enemies and prey to squish them flat. Their infants were the cute ones. Small and stout, coming no higher than your knee and shaped more like scaley tortoises than actual lizards, with small faces and wide eyes, and little pointed tails. What made those creatures so deceptive was their penchant to lure travellers, with the promise of twinkling treasures that grow out of their backs, to their deaths. More often than not did travellers chase one right off a cliff side. The crystal lizard babies would then cling to the cliff face and watch as the poor fools met their fate.

What more, they were incredibly intelligent.

Patches discovered their intelligence in a peculiar way. Holed up in the catacombs, a crystal lizard baby attempted to bait Patches off the canyon and into the depths below. Patches watched the display with an amused look to his face. Once the crystal lizard knew Patches had no interest in its treasure, it approached him with a most curious behaviour. It sniffed the air around him, initially, then came closer to engage him.

“Have you any idea who you’re trying to con?” Patches mused quietly to the lizard. 

Patches had seen them all around before. They were harmless, as far as their physical capabilities went. They didn’t seem to emit any toxic fumes or have poisonous glands. They were merely the adorable offspring of a terrifying creature.

“What? After something?” The crystal lizard stuck it’s flat snout in the air, rapidly sniffing towards something like a dog. It circled around where Patches decided to squat down, then came up to the side of his thigh. It seemed fixated on something in his pocket.

Patches dug around in the pocket the crystal lizard was so enticed by, and produced a tiny, shimmering gemstone. The stone, with its brilliant red hue, was no bigger than his thumb nail. He waved it before the lizard, who followed the slow wave pattern.

How peculiar.

The gemstone in question wasn’t worth a hefty amount of souls. It was a luxury to wear something so dazzling around your neck, but with the current state of the world, things that were without use were essentially cast aside. To Patches, it wasn’t of any concern when he tossed the glorified rock a few feet away, and the crystal lizard scuttled after it to devour it.

He pulled a second from his pocket and held it up for the lizard to see. It returned, and when Patches held it up a little higher and held out a hand, the lizard obediently placed one of its legs into his hand. He tossed it up into the air, and the lizard snatched it.

Patches hummed. “What a smart critter you are.” Then a rather devious thought struck him. “Oh,” his lips widened into a plotting smile, and a laugh bubbled up from inside him. “I think you’ll be of great help, indeed.”

-

Patches waited. He possessed all the patience in the world when he was fixed on a goal, and his was clear. If that supposed “Chosen Undead” wouldn’t come close enough to him out of distrust, then surely an inconspicuous lizard wouldn’t set off any alarm bells. He watched from his spot, hidden in the shadows of a makeshift alcove in one of the walls of the catacombs. The turntable spikey bridge he’d tripped earlier on the Chosen Undead was turned right back around to a safe walkway. They took an experiment step, then once found it safe, took another step forward.

“Alright,” Patches whispered to the crystal lizard that rooted around in the dirt beside him. He picked it up by the outer crest of it’s crystal shell, and faced it forward to look out over the bridge. “just like we’ve practiced. Get this right, and you’ll be stuffed with crystals for a lifetime.” He plucked a much tinier gemstone from his pocket, and tossed it over the edge. The crystal lizard skittered after it.

Patches watched on as the lizard entered the Chosen Undead’s line of sight.

-

You were tired. So, so tired. Not only did you wear an unusually heavy set of armour you weren’t used to 3 sizes too large in order to survive the impact of those strange exploding heads that stalked you in the air, you were also lost. All you knew was that you had to go down below in order to retrieve this “Rite of Kindling”. You had attempted to make it to the bottom of a casm before, either time you were either unfortunately killed by some entity that lurked in the darkness, or you fell to your demise. There was another instance of a fellow human who tricked you into falling off the rotating platform you were coming up to. You wanted to kill him, but oh, he “apologized” and you were “friends now”, as he put it. Something about temptations, or whatever horrid things ran through his head. It mattered not, for you had spared his life, and seen nothing of him since.

Finally, you reached the rotating platform. It was set the right way so that the spikes were on the underside, and there seemed to be no trickster nearby. Good.

The moment you took a step onto the platform, a sudden twinkle caught your eye. Scurrying quickly along the wall and around erratically, the crystal lizard crossed your path on the bridge. It halted for a moment to look at you, with it’s wide void-like eyes, little snout, and what seemed like a permanent little smile. You knew exactly what it possessed, for you had killed several before. The incredibly rare twinkling titanite.

The moment you moved towards it, the critter seemed to jump in surprise and skitter its way towards the other side of the bridge, and to the ledge. It stopped suddenly, then raised its head as if to look at something.

Your eyes followed the lizard’s gaze up toward a hole in the wall that looked as though it would have a staircase attached, but crumbled off many years ago. You squinted your eyes to look further, but found no being by the lip of the hole.

An idea came to mind. You drew your blade and approached the lizard. Just as you thought, it darted off the side of the rotating bridge to its death - or rather, that’s what it wanted you to believe. You immediately pivoted the other way and, lo and behold, that same crystal lizard crawled up from the underside of the bridge on the other side. When it spotted you, alive and obviously not fallen off the bridge, the lizard scurried up the wall face towards the hole.

Quickly you sheathed your blade and ran (the best you could) along the bridge to the other side. You navigated the vertical labyrinth that was the catacombs with little ease, but managed to find yourself in the same hole in the wall the lizard crawled into. You looked around and, very quietly, checked every nook and shadowy corner. There was no one around - not even the lizard.

“Now what did we practice?” You swore you heard a voice echo faintly through the catacombs. It sounded to be just above you. You craned yourself head up, and found a hole in the floor, which a light glowed faintly from.

You slowly stepped around the room, keeping your head up towards the hole and your left arm out to feel along the walls. There had to be something to hold on to - there! Your fingers dug into the wall, and felt something of an indent. You brought your hand up, and felt another divet parallel to the one below it. It was a ladder built into the wall, eroded nearly smooth with time.

That same voice you heard seemed to scowl quietly. You found your grip on one of the rungs, and slowly brought a foot up.

“Oh, don’t you give me those big sappy eyes.” The increasingly familiar voice tutted. “How’re we suppose to run business if you can’t get your act together?”

One of your hinges squeaked, and you immediately stopped moving up the ladder. The voice paused momentarily, before deciding it was nothing. You cursed the overly large plate you wore.

“Well- Hey now, what’s all sulking about? That undead is a fool - nothing but a fool! We’ll get her next time.”

_Fool?_ You ground your teeth together. _Me, a fool? Says the man who would try to trick me twice, after I already threatened to lob his head off!_ you thought to yourself.

You made it high enough up the worn ladder to poke your helmeted head through the hole. He didn’t seem to notice you. Instead of calling at him, catching him off guard and ruining the moment, you instead stayed completely still and ogled the screen before you. Squat against a wall with a lit lantern beside him, Patches held up that same small, crystal lizard, in his hands. The lizard seemed to languidly swing its limbs as he half-hearted scolded the creature. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, but you could almost see what looked like a genuine smile.

“Perhaps even that stupid sunny ‘gent. He’s dim-witted enough.” Patches mused to the lizard, and let out a chuckle.

It was one thing to overhear a plot against yourself - but a plot against the most wholesome person you’ve had the pleasure of meeting? Absolutely not.

“You.” You seethed loud enough for Patches’s shoulders to jerk in surprise. His head swivelled towards you, and gave you a shaky grin.

“Oh, hello my darling!” He let out a laugh and placed the lizard down as quickly, but gently, as he could. “What, erm… Fancy meeting you here?”

You noticed the lizard didn’t scuttle away.

“Training animals to do your dirty work? That’s low. Even for you.” You growled, and climbed an additional rung - but stopped when your shoulders collided with the sides of the hole. You shuffled your shoulders about, straining yourself to push through, but the damn pauldrons and bulky shoulders kept you from slipping through.

Patches belted out a cackle at the humourous sight. “Aw, did the armour you pilfer not come in a size smaller?” He spoke over whatever you were about to say. “How dare you accuse me of such a cheap trick! I would never do such a thing.”

You could almost feel your left shoulder popping through the hole as you fought against both gravity and metal. “Is that so?” You grunted as you fought to fit through. “Then tell me why that creature is so fond of you. Not a thing alive would find you suitable company.”

It came to you, as you watched with a scrutinizing gaze and Patches’ eyes flew here and there in search of a viable excuse, that he was a man of theatrics. With every pet name he threw that was always accompanied by a false grin, his exaggerations quelled you enough to not peek through his translucent curtain. That was, until he was caught red-handed.

“I- Why, I saved the little bastard from greedy treasure hunters like you.” His voice raised, as if he was truly offended. He stretched out his arms to beckon for the lizard to climb his legs and nestle itself in his arms. The candlelight in the lantern below cast a sharp shadow across his features, accentuating the way his lips curled upwards and his brow bone furrowed deeply.

“I should be the one interrogating you.” He stepped closer to the hole you poked your head out of. “Why’d you chase this innocent thing all the way to its hidey hole, huh?”

He stomped the bottom of his leather boot on to the top of your helmet, causing your ears to ring. You cried out in pain.

“What? Can’t leave well enough alone?” Another hard stomp. You felt a crack in your neck, and your fingers lose grip. “Just have to beat down the innocent to get off, don’t you?”

The final stomp pushed your head out of the hole and sent you colliding into the dirty stone floor below, limp. Patches watched from above as you let out a groan, and your body dissipated away. His non-existent brows shot up in surprise, and locked eyes with the crystal lizard in his arms.

“Oops.”


	10. The Atrocity of a Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!WARNING!!  
> Mild sexual predatory behaviour ahead. Potential spelling errors ahead because I wrote this in a night.  
> !!WARNING!!

It wasn’t a bad setup, he supposed. There were always far worse locations, like that windmill filled with horrible gases he attempted to set up shop in long ago. It was sunny, at least, and the leaves above provided enough shade that his pale complexion wouldn’t burn. The people that would come and go were all chumps, so making a profit off them was regular. He didn’t particularly like how the pyromancer with a loud mouth attempted to get close to him, but able to play the buddy-buddy act, Patches often got information out of Laurentius without even twisting his arm. The only glaring downside, however, was the wretched scent of death that protruded from the unholy serpent that emerged from far below the shrine.

On a day he planned to pack up and explore to find more invaluable items, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

A Knight, clad in opulent golden armour, sculpted with the embrace of a goddess around him to mark his favour, and a helmet with prongs to resemble that of a crown, stalked through the overgrown brush that garnished the perimetre of firelink shrine. He emerged, the sun poetically bouncing rays off his armour with every movement, drawing the attention of those that would gawk mindlessly at him - mostly Laurentius. But Patches’ sharp eyes landed upon this Knight wrapped in luxury, and was able to identify him.

Lautrec of Carim - or as he would have it, Lautrec the Embraced.

It was clear Lautrec failed to notice Patches as his head swivelled here and there, inspecting the residents that lazed about, taking in the momentary respite. Through the ruined walls of the shrine, Patches peered through where a window might have been in the shrine, and watched as Lautrec made his way down the semi-eroded, moss covered steps to the lower half of the shrine. Patches knew what was down there. A woman, blind and unable to speak, hidden away in the shadows of the hollowed out hole beneath the bonfire, guarded by iron bars.

She would be safe, wouldn’t she? This Lautrec, although not the tallest of men Patches had seen, nor the widest, wouldn’t be able to reach the Firekeeper.

Patches gave a shake of his head. There was no reason to worry; the bars were there to protect her, and it was not his duty to worry, anyhow. That Chosen Undead would pay her a visit every so often, so she wasn’t alone.

That thought paused Patches. He noticed a trend; every single person that would come to pass through the shrine has ties to the Chosen Undead in one way or another. If he was told by the Chosen Undead of the shrine…

He remembered the harsh, lethal words of Lautrec when Patches managed to lock the Knight up in the church. He knew of his desires, and tricked Lautrec into the cell. It was from the moment Patches happened upon Lautrec’s path that he could sense his vile intentions, and thought to teach that Knight a lesson.

He was at odds with himself. Risk a stand-off with the Knight, or warn the Firekeeper of his intent? In the end, Patches wasn’t about to have the death of some accursed bird on his hands - not when he wasn’t the one doing the act of wrath.

Patches gathered himself mentally, and strode off towards the bonfire, ignoring Laurentius’ greeting.

Patches approached the ledge that dropped to the lower portion of the shrine quietly, and peered over the edge. Lautrec kneeled before the iron bars of the Firekeeper’s prison, speaking soft words to her. He reached forward between the bars with the curved blade of his shotel, catching her skirt with the end of his blade and lifting it just enough to peer beneath it. Cower away as she might, the prison she resided was too shallow to escape his reach.

“How perfect you are…” Lautrec whispered as he lifted her skirt higher. It ripped when the Firekeeper pulled the fabric down, catching along the sharp edge of his sword. “You haven’t anything to fear. I know of your sins, Anastacia.” His voice rumbled quietly in an attempt to coax her closer. “Wouldn’t you like to cleanse yourself of sin? I can help you.”

Patches scuffed his boot on the loose stones of the dilapidated shrine, causing a few rocks to fall and clatter against Lautrec’s helmet. Immediately the golden Knight ripped his shotel out from between the iron bars, and stumbled back to gaze up at whoever was above him.

Lo and behold, it was that skinhead bastard he’d been hoping to come across again.

“Ah, Trusty Patches, was it?” Lautrec didn’t bother to sheath his blade on his back - no, instead he reached over his shoulder to reveal a second shotel.

“Oh, you’re that embraced knight, aren’t you?” Patches mused. “Or am I getting you mixed up for another soft bloke that likes to be coddled?”

Patches spoke over whatever Lautrec had to bite back with. “Careful you don’t prod at that Chosen’s beloved fire keeper. Might not take too kindly to that.” Patches’ thinly veiled threat left Lautrec unbothered.

“You speak bravely for a man within my blade’s reach.” Lautrec’s voice wavered into a furious tone, but only for a moment. He wouldn’t risk an emotional outburst in front of scum. “You’ve kept me from fulfilling my quest within a timely manner. Though, I suppose it matters not, when you’ll be stuck on my blade.”

The confrontation turned to one Patches had secretly hoped would be avoided. Ah well. It seems sweet words and a silver tongue would not be enough to worm his way out of this one, but thankfully he, too, was handy with a halberd.

But it seemed as though some force of nature was on his side, for he felt the heavy hand of the Chosen Undead grip his shoulder. Within the presence of the Chosen Undead, Lautrec placed his blades back in their holds on his back.

“Oh, hello mate! Glad to see you in one piece.” Patches pretended to beam happily at the Chosen Undead. “Mind you keep an eye on this one. He doesn’t quite sit right with me - but you caught me on my way out.” Patches returned the gesture by giving a playful knock against the back of the Chosen Undead’s armour. He threw a gesture that resembled something of a wave farewell, and returned to his nook to pack what little belongings he owned.

It was later that he would feel pity for the Firekeeper when he returned, only to find a ripped, bloody skirt in her place.


	11. Weight of the World - Fire Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were robbed of gossip and Patches’ interactions with the other NPCs, so I decided to rectify that. Each chapter of Weight of the World will contain Patches interacting with each NPC (or sometimes, NPCs in groups). There is a small plot associated with each, making the chapters relative to one another.

Every now and again the familiar sound of armour clunking up the worn stone stairs of the shrine would stir Patches from thought. They would approach him with a silent glare and voicelessly inquire about his inventory and would either purchase something, much to Patches’ delight, or would abruptly walk away, followed by his belittling words.

There was a period of time the Ashen One didn’t return for an unusually long time, and in that time Patches watched the drifters from his perch, high above in the shrine. It was amusing to watch the blind bird with snowy white hair and long ash-stained robes stumble around the shrine and stub her toes on the steps and walls. She would let out a breathy squeak each time she gently collided with something, feel around with her arms and finally take her place somewhere. No one spoke with her directly, all except the Ashen One, but there was one time Patches did descend from his perch to interact with her.

The Fire Keeper sat along the steps of the inner circular shrine, fiddling with a loose strand of thread from her robes and quietly hummed to herself. Upon hearing the shuffling of greaves, she lifted her head and called out, “Welcome home, Ashen One.”

But her small smile faltered. “Ah, thine footfalls art lighter than mine Ashen One.”

Her observation took Patches by surprise, considering he was taller and no doubt heavier than the Ashen One. He looked down at his outfit and realized it was the iron greaves and boots he wore that gave him that clunky armour sound, but the fabric shirt he wore on his torso and nothing else helped his footsteps sound lighter.

Patches let out a chuckle. “Huh. Not very blind for a blind girl, are we?”

The Fire Keeper visibly recoiled. “Thoust a wicked one; begone.”

“Aw, now, now,” he crouched low before her, levelling his eyes to where hers used to be. “what has that horrid Ashen Tart been telling you?”

“They told’th me of thy trickster ways, and how thee would betray thy own compatriots.”

“Trickster?” Patches couldn’t help the manic grin growing on his face. “Oh, absolutely. Spot on, in fact. Now, what’s all this about betraying my friends?” He mimicked a hurt tone. “I would never do such a thing, bird.”

“I don’t believe thee. I am told’th thee did cast mine Ashen One’s true friend down a well, and that yond thee donn’d his armour and pretended to be him.”

Patches playfully shrugged, not that the Fire Keeper could see it. “Alright, I admit, I did that. And how remarkably easy it was to get him to strip that laughable armour off - but I digress. Old boy and I made up. We’re all friends now!”

She didn’t fully believe that he made amends with the poor, jolly knight, but his truthful admittance is what caused the Fire Keeper to ease her suspicions of him… for now.

She craned her head to look up at him. Patches whistled and gave a little wave, and her head followed the sound to look straight ahead. She jumped slightly in surprise.

“Thou art a solitary being. What mad’eth thee come down hither?”

“Oh,” Patches rubbed the back of his bald head. “I had enough of being a fly on the wall to the goings on here. Thought I’d come down,” the Fire Keeper could hear the grin on the face in his tone. “stir up some trouble.”

The Fire Keeper’s lips contorted to a grimace of disgust. “Is’t within thy nature to disturb the delicate balance of those who seek’th solace hither?”

“Hear me now, bird,” he said. “I ain’t the one to meddle where his nose don’t belong. You’re better off giving that question to your beloved Ashen Tart.”

“Just as thee has’t nay business stripping yond po’r knight of his armour, and disturbing our contenders.”

The toothy, almost malicious, grin fell from Patches’ face for a moment, before awkwardly chuckling, “Not one to pick up on sarcasm, are you? I didn’t actually mean I’d cause trouble-“

From her seat on the semi-eroded stone steps, the Fire Keeper stood to her full height. Not as tall as Patches, her figure and aura possessed a cursed air around her, and managed to send a fright through the tall pale man. “Thou shan’t spread any mischief whilst thou take’th shelter in the shrine, lest thou wishes to face wrath.”

Patches held up his hands in defense. “Alright, alright! I read you - loud and clear!”

Satisfied with his answer, the Fire Keeper took her seat once more on the eroded steps. “Then thou art most welcomed.”

But Patches remained to stare down at the Fire Keeper. After several, silent moments passed, the Fire Keeper’s idle humming halted. “Oh, does’t the vagrant have more to say?”

“Yeah.” His light and spirited tone evaporated to a dour mood. “I see a lot that goes on here.”

“Oh?” The Fire Keeper entertained him.

“And I see how that Tart treats you.” He said with a vindictive tone. “The way they slap you around with every new shiny toy they find. You don’t have to take that.”

At his confrontational language, the Fire Keeper recoiled slightly. “I am surprised thee care enow to approach’th me, but it doest not matter, for I cannot die so easily.”

Patches huffed at her complaisant attitude of remaining nothing more but a servant to the next Lord, and a training dummy. “Death doesn’t matter much, but you’ve still got feelings. How’d that last beheading feel? Not great, eh?”

The Fire Keeper pursed her lips, and remained silent for a moment, before speaking in a quieter voice, “I… Mine own feelings matter not. I understand’th mine place in the ordinary; what mine fate hast becometh.”

Patches went to speak, but the soft, shaky voice of the Fire Keeper kept his words at bay. She clutched at the worn fabric of her ash-stained sleeves. “Wicked One,” she sounded pained. “prithee, grant me solitude.”

He hesitated, staring as she drew herself inward, but he knew when it was time to leave well enough alone. Wordlessly he stepped away, interested in the dark figure in armour that resembled a gargoyle peeking from the archway to spy down below, further into the shrine.

But the Fire Keeper called quietly after Patches. “Thy concern is appreciated, O Wicked One.”


	12. Weight of the World - Eygon and Irina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....admittedly, I am a fan of the EygonxIrina pairing.

Eygon of Carim - a knight dressed in armour that resembled some sort of horrific creature - watched a pale maiden, wrapped up in creams and whites, from above. Irina, the one Eygon was so devoted to, sat upon what seemed to be the only dry patch of stone in the moist darkness of the shrine’s lowest floor.

Patches had seen him before. He entered the shrine to visit her from afar a few times, merely to silently observe and see if she was alright in the care of the Ashen One. Once satisfied, he would sulk around the outside of the shrine before taking off somewhere else. 

This visit didn’t seem to be like his others, Patches noticed from where he spoke with the Fire Keeper. Eygon moved slow and carefully, as not to disturb the joints in his armour too much. He didn’t call out to her, didn’t engage or make himself known. He stood in the shadows, spying on the poor blonde girl. Patches had no issue playing along with Eygon’s silent act.

It was after a few more moments of peering down at the nun, who slowly swayed her head and hummed, that Eygon stepped away from the arch and crossed his arms.

“What business have you to bother me?” His deep, rumbling voice flowed from the open mouth of the gargoyle helmet he wore. “Go kiss someone else’s ass. I’m not in the mood for your foolery.”

Patches tilted his head and smirked at the Carim knight. He knew exactly what that tone meant; he was defensive. Like he was caught in the act of doing something he’s ashamed of. “Know of me,” Patches kept his voice quiet, much like the knight’s own voice. “wittol?”

A low growl resounded from within Eygon. “You’ve made a number of enemies. Seems like you’re in the market for another one.” Eygon reached behind him, never moving his head from gazing at Patches, for his atrociously large hammer that leaned into the corner he stood in.

But there was something about Carim knights that Patches was intimately familiar with. Rude, crass and as prickly as they were, not often did they enact wrath upon others who caused petty offense.

Patches crossed his arms and shrugged. “All you knights with your maidens you’re all so devoted to - how’s a bloke not to think you don’t slave over her feet? But not you, eh?”

Patches stepped quietly, closer to the archway to gaze down at the nun, Irina. He pulled himself back to face Eygon. “Not with an evil creature like that.”

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Eygon whispered. “A pitiful failure. Nothing but an attraction to perverse darkness, but even a woman cursed as her deserves her dignity. Begone.”

Unbothered, Patches complied. “Alright, then. No sense in talking to you. Your lady down there,” Patches had begun to make his way towards the stairs that descended lower into the shrine. “seems more apt for conversation. Maybe I’ll-“

Eygon slammed his impossibly large hammer down dangerously close to Patches, kicking up clouds of ash and debris. His hammer shook the ground, and sent an ear-shattering bang echoing throughout the shrine.

“You won’t touch her.” Eygon seethed, lifting his head to stare directly into Patches’ eyes. “Not without a fight.”

“Ashen One?”

A soft voice called out, just loud enough for both men to hear. “Ashen One,” she called again. “is that you?”

Eygon hoisted the hammer back up the rest against his shoulder. “No, my lady. It’s only me.” He spoke louder towards the archway.

“Oh, Eygon,” her voice lifted in tone and sounded much happier than the dreary inquiry she had before. “it’s been so long since you came to visit me. Won’t you come here, please?”

Patches noticed the subtle way Eygon’s form turned frigid. A grin formed across his face, turning upwards in a most evil way. “What’s wrong? Don’t all you Carim knights dream of ravishing your lady? Or, is it that you’re right scared of her?” Patches purposefully forced out a laugh that dripped with venom. “Oh mate, you should’ve stopped being scared of the dark when you were a kid.”

“Say what you wish,” Eygon threatened in a low tone. “but I will kill you. Not now, but upon our next meeting I’ll separate the flesh from your oversized head. You’ll have wished you’d eaten your words.”

Eygon pushed past Patches, making sure to collide his armoured shoulder with his, and descended the stairs to where Irina spent her days.

Patches watched, silently above, in the shadow of the stone archway. The dark knight firmly planted the top of his hammer onto the ground, before kneeling before the pale nun. “What is it you needed, Irina?”

“Touch me, please.” Irina held up her hand in the blank space in front of her. “I- I have tremendous news.”

Eygon stared at the warm, soft palm Irina offered to him. She appeared simply angelic; the lit candles beside her created a heavenly glow around her in the dark, but all Eygon saw was the amplified darkness that plagued her eternally. He didn’t move, and was silent for too long.

Patches noticed his hesitation had turned into an uncertain withdrawal. It was clear to Patches now: this knight wasn’t just scared, he was terrified of her.

“Eygon? Where have you gone?” Irina’s outstretched arm faltered, but at his name, Eygon answered.

“I am here.” He pressed the palm of his gauntlet against her’s, and Irina’s fingers closed around his hand, feeling the intricacies of the design.

“It is you.” Irina whispered. “I am… I am glad it’s you. This Ashen One, he gave me a tome that felt most terrible against my fingers.”

Eygon stiffened. “Tell me you did not read it.”

Irina shook her head, and gave her knight a most demure smile. “I did not. A woman - a witch - stopped me before I could. She guided my hand to a tome that tickled me with its radiance.” She gave a quiet, gleeful chuckle. “It’s bountiful light seems to have staved off the darkness that nibbles upon me. Perhaps my path towards becoming a Fire Keeper is not lost.”

A Fire Keeper. This information surprised Patches. He had assumed she was nothing more but a broken nun - a dirty cleric, but she was nothing of the sort.

“Eygon,” she started. “I know my curse wards you away from me, but the darkness is not in my presence. May I touch your skin?”

“...Are you so certain you feel the absence of the dark? Remember my oath to you.”

“I remember clearly. No, it seems gone. I feel positively elated.”

It was true that her smile turned up more than usual, and a healthy flush was present in her cheeks. Eygon pulled his hand away from hers to unclip the clasps of his gauntlet, and pulled it off to reveal his bare flesh. Experimentally, he placed only the pads of his fingertips against hers, then slowly enveloped her hand in his.

Irina let out a breathy gasp. “Oh, oh Eygon, you are so warm. I never could have imagined you felt this way. I can only wonder what you may look like.”

Patches grimaced at the sickly sweet scene unfold before him, and stepped away before he became a witness to the lovelorn fools’ potential union. Lovers were items that already made his stomach twist in knots, but secret lovers? He nearly vomited at the thought. There was one thing that stuck with him through all of that snooping; the corruption the new Fire Keeper nearly fell to by way of the Ashen One.

Perhaps the world could have done well with the loss of one more holy person, but the loss of a fire attendee? No, Patches knew where his hatred began and ended, and this betrayal was another strike against the Ashen One for him.


	13. A Game of Admittance - (Part 1)

What a homely face. No one in high regard looked the way he did, and even if they did, they had enough manners to hide away their looks beneath a mask. Never before had you come across a creature to look of such low birth - even the twisted, hollowed undead possessed enough duty within them to come across as sadly charming. Not him, no, for his only duty was to himself. He was selfish, thus making him horrendous inside and out.

Or so you tried to convince yourself.

He wasn’t ugly. Perhaps odd looking; resembling that of an albino animal than an infamously revolting mythical creature. He wasn’t of low birth - well, nothing proved that, anyway. If he were, you knew there was nothing wrong with that. As for being selfish, well, that was really the only truthful thing you echoed in your head.

You wished you could say he possessed astronomical hubris, but he was too smart for that. He knew of his extents, such as the first time you threatened him. He wore leather, mostly, but he was taller than you and wider. He was lean, but not scrawny, and he was strong to wield a giant shield and giant weapon, but the armour you wore then was roughly two sizes too large and did well to mask your actual stature. Fooled by this, he backed down and offered a flimsy apology for putting your life at risk.

By all accounts, you should despise the treacherous bastard. So… why didn’t you?

You were cold to him at every turn. It didn’t matter how sweet he acted, or how genuine his questions came across, you remained as silent as you possibly could and paid him no ounce of warmth. He didn’t deserve it, anyhow. Any sane person would accept your inhuman demeanour, but not him. He still pressed on; each encounter he pushed the boundary with his incessant affection. It was almost as if he could smell your weakness, and was simply waiting for your persona to falter.

You thought about this as you sat near the bonfire in the shrine. A few people you befriended joined you and chatted merrily as they drank their tankards of alcohol - graciously provided by Siegward, who paid a visit. Siegward, Greirat, Sirris, Orbeck, and yourself, sat and chatted. This was also the first time you decided to shed your armour and rest in a set of leather that actually fit you, in the presence of others. It was a bit of a surprise that this Unkindled didn’t live up to the larger-than-life appearance you fronted with, but in this current company, you figured it was safe to be truthful with them. Everyone else who wore bulky armour or face-obscuring pieces, removed them as well.

Amidst friendly revelry, you couldn’t keep your mind off the man you’d fallen for. As fate would have it, either by holy or malicious force you were uncertain of, Patches decided himself fit to join your little group.

You nearly choked on your mead when he strolled up and declared himself a fellow ruffian.

“This circle is for pleasant company.” Sirris had no qualms telling him off from the lip of her mug. Her freezing, steely glare could shoot icicles through the soul of just about anymore.

“Come now,” Greirat vouched for Patches. “he’s not nearly as bad as the infamy that precedes him.”

“Thank you, mate.” Patches laid a hand across his chest and took his seat beside the scavenger, and straight across from you.

“We have a rule in Catarina.” Siegward said as he reached behind him for his sack, and revealed a large canteen and an extra tankard he passed off to Patches. “One’s true self comes out with the help of a cup of joy, so one should toast with their enemies and friends!” He filled Patches’ tankard, and he gladly took a gulp.

“This Catarina,” Orbeck inquired, surely as a way of dismantling the awkward air. “it sounds awfully friendly. Marvellous, even. Would you regale us with stories of your land?”

“I would be most honoured.” Telling by Siegward’s tone, it seemed he was just waiting for someone to ask about his home.

You kept your eyes fixed on Siegward as he told the story of how a group of knights started their day attending a breakfast gathering, and ended it slaying a few drakes, all the while drunk. Throughout the story, you couldn’t help but glance toward Patches. He seemed to be enjoying the re-telling. Little did you know he was shooting looks your way, too.

“But you, Orbeck. You’re from Vinheim! Why don’t you tell us a bit about that.” Siegward started the trend of each person talking about their respective homelands. It went around the circle, until it came to you.

You didn’t talk much. Not because you didn’t like to, but you preferred to listen, and if there was one thing you learned so far with your journey, it was that an eager mouth would certainly spill secrets. Thus, you remained quiet about details. That didn’t stop you from befriending people, however.

“Tell us about your land, my liege.” Sirris, your voluntary knight, bumped shoulders with you.

“My land?” You reiterated, quietly. You hummed in thought for a moment. Details of that life were little, but what little you knew, you had no problem divulging.

“And… what of you, Patches? Where are you from?” You forced your tone to remain neutral.

Patches, much like yourself, hummed in thought. It took him a little longer than you to recollect details, or make them up. “Why, I’m from Carim. I’m sure you lot could tell from my prominent looks.” He gave a cheeky grin and gestured to his nose, pulling a chuckle from Siegward. Patches certainly could be charming when he wanted to be. “I haven’t been in a long time, so the details are fuzzy. Sorry,” he shrugged. “but you’d be better off asking that gargoyle bloke.”

The keen Orbeck could see through his guise, much like you could. “Alright, then,” Orbeck began. “why don’t you tell us about your childhood? Or better yet, how you came across a most unusual name.”

Patches lifted a brow. “You think I’d have a better memory of being a runt than I would the place I’m from? As for my glorious name,” he lifted a gloved finger up to his lips, and smiled. “that’s a secret, through and through.”

“Well there must be something of equivalence you can offer us.” Orbeck leaned back to rest against the first step of the surrounding stairs. He took a sip from his tankard. “Don’t make me ask something childish.” He threw a grin at Patches.

“Childish?” Greirat tittered. “I’m not above asking childish questions. I think we’re all due an answer, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sirris?”

“I would be so inclined to agree.” Sirris nodded her head. “And you, Sir Siegward?”

Siegward, mid drink, gulped back his mouth full of mead. “We’ve all divulged a little piece of ourselves. It’s not outrageous to request the same, wouldn’t you say, old boy?” He shot his rhetoric question back towards Patches.

But not one to falter under pressure, Patches drank from his tankard then asked in a light tone, “What’s this? Are we all school kids again?”

Greirat shrugged, then smoothed back the frizz of his silver hair. “Why not? I wouldn’t mind revisiting my youth again. They were better times.” He swished around the shallow mead in his tankard. “Hm. I’m nearly out.”

“I have your solution, friend!” Siegward tossed the large canteen over the fire for Greirat to catch.

“I believe, since our dear Ashen One proposed the question in the first place, she should be the one to ask again.” Orbeck spoke up. All eyes were now upon you.

Your mind blanked. “When… um, when was the… last time you… lied?”

Nearly everyone groaned in unison.

“That’s a terrible question, my liege.” Sirris chuckled from beside you, now lounging back against her elbow.

You rolled your eyes. You took another sip from your tankard and thought about the childish things you had roaming through your mind. You didn’t dare look at him, not when those childish questions turned to ones of sexual nature. You were ever so thankful for the intense warmth causing everyone’s cheeks around you to flush, just as yours were.

“If… If you could correct one mistake you made, at any point in time, what would it be?”

No one moaned at your question, and everyone remained silent, awaiting Patches’ response. He took a sip from his cup, then humph’d. “A lifetime ago, I let this bird use her spells on me. I was in a tight spot, but it didn’t work, so I died,” he gestured to himself, forcing a shit-eating grin on his face. “and became the lovely vision you see before you. This was before all you undead were a dime a dozen, ‘course.”

Patches found himself dry of alcohol, and gestured for Greirat to hand over the canteen.

“Why would it matter, if you were going to die anyway?” Sirris asked from her spot around the bonfire. The clouds outside slowly turned a dark grey, as day shifted into night.

“Ah-ah!” Patches wagged a finger at the woman dressed in startlingly white cloth and silver adornments. “One question at a time, eh? I never got to ask anyone my own.” Patches refilled his cup, before going on to speak. “You, Ashen One. Why’re you so cold and quiet all the time?”

The spotlight was back to you - but this time, you didn’t feel so on the spot. You had an answer, and one that wouldn’t reveal too much to allow anyone, especially Patches, to break you.

“Everyone possesses a weakness. I have my own. To remain quiet and distant is to protect myself from my weaknesses.” You answered plainly.

You cleared your throat, and shifted tones. “Orbeck. Who among us would you like most to see nude?”

Siegward spat out the mead he had in his mouth from mid-drink. “By the gods…!” He cursed to himself, but your sudden outlandish question caused most everyone else, excluding Orbeck, to erupt in laughter.

Orbeck’s already red cheeks reddened to a deeper shade all across his face. “...Would now be a good time to confess that I’m a narcissist?”

His response only fuelled the laughter. Orbeck winced and rubbed at his neck in an embarrassed fashion. “If… I am being honest,” he began slowly. “I would say Lady Sirris.”

Before she reacted, Orbeck hurried along. “Alright, alright. Greirat; one to ten, how would you label Sir Siegward’s attractiveness?”

But Greirat was able to play along nicely. “My, with such a finely groomed moustache? Ten, without a doubt.”

Greirat then inquired about Sirris, who then inquired about Siegward, who then inquired about Patches, and so on and so forth. Through the night, the alcohol remained flowing, and it wasn’t the fire that warmed everyone up inside. You continued to casually make eye contact with Patches from across the bonfire throughout the night, and neither were you terribly subtle with your provocative questions towards one another.

“What colour of underthings are you wearing?”

“What is your most pressing fear?”

“Who in this room would you rather kiss?”

“Who in this room would you rather kill?”

“When was the last time you stumbled across love in this barren world?”

Questions like that carried on through the night, growing more and more silly as the drinks kept flowing.

At some point, in your now tipsy haze, you had switched spots with Orbeck, allowing him to lounge beside Sirris. You were now wedged between Orbeck, to your left, and Greirat, to your right. The two pale, dark haired ones were so enraptured with conversation that it left you, Siegward, Greirat, and Patches, to chat amongst yourselves.

“I must say,” Siegward started, only slightly slurring his words, “your company has been one of delight! I really didn’t think it would be possible, old boy.”

“Might I say the same!” Patches clapped Siegward’s back in a friendly way. “Grievances behind us; you’re an alright lad.”

“Shall we keep the game going?” You asked from the lip of your mug. “The lovers over there seem far too busy to join us.” The four of you made eyes at Orbeck and Sirris, nearly nose to nose in conversation, and not able to hear the outside world.

“I’m game.” Greirat said. “Ashen One, what is one thing you wish you could unsee?”

“Oh gods,” you muttered, before deciding on an answer. “Siegward’s bare moon down in the well.”

Siegward threw back his head and laughed. “It is rather pale, isn’t it?” You laughed along with him. Slowly through the night, as you drank more, that tight hold you had on yourself became undone.

“Siegward,” you prompted him, then wiggled your eyebrows at him. “you handsome man, have you ever found the warm comforts of another person in these lands?”

Siegward shyly chuckled. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.” This pulled a laugh from you, and overall confirmed your question. “Patches! Tell us, is there anyone you currently adore?”

Everyone’s eyes landed on the pale bald man with a flushed complexion. He took another drink from his mug. “Yes, yes there is.” He didn’t necessarily sound dismissive, but hesitant. “Greirat, friend, when was the last you enjoyed the gentle touch of a man?”

Greirat touched his face in a bashful way. “Oh, not for some time. Not these old bones. Ashen One,” it was your turn again. You answered Greirat’s silly question, then directed yours back to Patches.

“Patches,” you said. “who is this person you’re smitten with?”

“Truthfully?”

“Presumably, we’ve all been truthful.” Siegward chimed in.

“Alright.” Patches lifted his look from his mug up to your gaze. The clash of light from the bonfire against the darkness swarming the shrine cast deep shadows across his face. “Our dear Ashen One.”

Your heart pricked painfully in your chest…. was it painful? You weren’t sure, but whether it was your heart racing or the anxiety knocking against your ribcage, Patches’ admittance set you off.

He tilted his head, and gave you a smile. You weren’t sure if it was meant to be a slimy smile or a keen one. It was hard to tell with him. “Ashen One, who is it now that you love?”

You looked at the drink in your mug. It lightly sloshed in your mug from your shaky grip. “Hm… I- It would have to be you, Patches the trickster. Only the gods know how that happened. I certainly don’t.” You mumbled the last bit, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, and took a drink from your mug.

“Trickster!” Patches whistled in appraisal. “Now why-“

“Siegward,” you interrupted Patches. “were you married once before?”

“Indeed, I was. But oh, Greirat,” he called to the scrawny scavenger across the way. “won’t you warm the spot next to me? It’s grown awfully cold without Lady Sirris beside me.”

“I think I’ll do just that.” Greirat stood from his spot and tip-toed around Patches. “Excuse me, friend.” He planted himself right between Siegward and the infamous Patches, forcing him to scoot your way.

Mentally, you cursed Greirat for leaving you. You weren’t sure if it was all the drink everyone had, or the lulling warmth of the fire, but Patches casually leaned back against his arms that propped himself up, and found yourself within his arm span. He didn’t move, or draw attention to it. Rather, he reveled in the proximity to you, and you did tenfold.

“Is anyone in need of a top up?” From behind him, Siegward revealed an unopened canteen.


	14. A Game of Admittance - (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may come across as potentially OOC for Patches. He’s quite difficult to capture in words when he’s not being a complete tool, so my sincerest apologies in advance!  
> I just wanted a little warmth with his cold heart, and some love in his character.

You listened to the deeper voices that circled around you in the dark. With your eyes closed, you leaned back against something solid and warm, taking in the slow, steady spinning of your world. You were never much of a drinker. The only times you partook was during special occasions, which were growing few and far between. Even then, it was only a mug. You were on your… fifth? Sixth, perhaps?

Then the thing you leaned against seemed to speak. It rumbled and lightly shook with every word it seemed to form. It felt as though the thing- person, you leaned against was in banter with other people.

A touch spooked you from your languid dreams. A hand gently touched the surface of your forehead.

“Lads, seems our Ashen One can’t hold her drink well. This one nearly fell asleep!” Patches chuckled, as did Siegward and Greirat.

You could feel his laugh reverberate in his chest. It felt nice - almost soothing. You opened your eyes fully, to find the two lovers were fast asleep against each other, Siegward and Greirat had scooted closer to where you sat, and Patches… You shifted your head, to find yourself nestled between his legs and huddled up to his chest.

You were certain you turned a vibrant red, head-to-toe with how intensely you felt heat burn up inside you. You crawled away, all the while chuckling, and said, “Oh, I- I must have dozed off.”

Quickly you crawled to a spot wedged between Greirat and Patches. Just as you sat, you remembered you didn’t have your tankard with you.

“Where-“ The vision of Patches holding your tankard up silenced you. He offered it to you, with a wink and a charming smile he laid on thick. You took it, feeling your fingers overlap his for a moment, and sipped what little it had left. “Thank you,” you mumbled quietly into your mug.

“Not a problem at all, my love.”

You averted your eyes from him. His language was no different than how he usually came on to you. He was always openly flirtatious, but you had thought that was his way of buttering you up into buying things from him, and fetching him trinkets. It was his physical proximity to you, that you noticed, was more brazen. He didn’t dare touch you so willingly, but just this night alone you slept contently against him with his arm comfortably around you.

“None of us will fault you for sleeping.” Greirat stretched his arms above in his and released a deep yawn. “I’m nearing retirement, as well.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” You waved your hand and flashed a small smile. At this, Greirat made a gasp in awe.

“O’ Ashen One, I’ve never seen that look on your face before. Perhaps we should feed you alcohol more often.” He snickered, causing your already warm cheeks to burn.

“I- I smile!” You exclaimed with an offended tone, at first. “Sometimes.”

“Not nearly enough, methinks.” Patches leaned closer to waggle a brow at you. You scoffed and gave him a playful shove.

“Ironic, coming from someone who makes it his duty to be the thorn in everyone’s side.” You nearly hissed at him.

“Please,” Patches laid a hand against his chest. “who else would set you lot free of your arrogance? It’s all in jest, so long as you don’t die - ain’t that right, old boy? No bad blood between us, eh?”

Siegward slumped forward with his head lolled to the side, peacefully snoring. Patches’ sly smile faltered into a tired look.

“Well then. I’m sure he’d agree if he were awake.”

You hummed. “Right, yes, and it does nothing but help your case, that the only person who thinks highly of you is awake.”

“‘Highly’ is too generous, I’d say.” Greirat quipped.

“What? You don’t think highly of me? Come on,” he attempted to coerce you with a deep, sweet tone. “you just admitted you love me.”

“It’s-!” Your voice failed you. You coughed, much to the pleasure of Patches, who was enjoying your flustered display. “Not- Not often does one actually have a choice in who they’re infatuated with. It’s purely by chance.”

“Is it?” The look he was currently giving you, eyes squinted and smile so slimy, you wanted nothing but to punch him square in the face. “Last I was sure, there’s usually a requirement.”

“Well,” Greirat spoke up and stood from his position in the ash. He stretched. “I’ll leave you two alone. I grow tired, and my eyelids cannot remain open for long.”

You called out quietly for Greirat as he made his way to one of the stairs leading down further into the shrine. “Wait, Greirat-“

He threw his arm up in a lazy wave, and called back, “Goodnight, you two.”

It was then you were officially alone with him. Not physically, since Orbeck, Sirris, and Siegward snooze just nearby. You took a sip from your tankard again, refusing to acknowledge the man beside you. It was the feeling of his heavy stare that made you speak up.

“You don’t have to act sweet to me, if there is something you wish. That… foolish talk of love won’t get you anywhere. Just come out and say whatever it is you’re after.” You whispered from beside him. You tried to remain quiet, as to not wake your slumbering companions or disturb those who would stay awake for days on end.

Patches chuckled darkly. “Figured me out, have you? Alright - down to it.” Patches moved closer to you, so that his right arm reached across you too lean in close. “I am besotted - nay, enamoured, of you. Smitten doesn’t nearly cut that painful stinging in my chest.”

His sudden confession threw you for a loop. You placed your tankard down somewhere in the ash to move your body and look up into his eyes. “This is unlike you.” You simply said.

“I know, I know.” He gave you a weak laugh. “I don’t feel quite like myself.”

Fear pitted itself in your stomach. In your tipsy haze, you reached up towards his face. “Are you…?” You looked into his eyes, but found no hint of darkness. His cheek beneath your fingertips still felt warm and smooth. “You’re not hollowing… are you?”

“Me? Unbreakable Patches, hollow? Why, those are contradictory statements, my beloved.” He placed a hand over yours and fell further into your touch.

“So there’s nothing you want out of me?”

“There is. There’s quite a number of things, in fact. All of which you can offer me, without a single soul.” He removed your hand from his cheek, keeping it in his own, and leaned forward to breath against your neck. He pulled you closer into his hold. “For starters, I want information. When did you fall for me, love?”

Feeling his hot breath against your sensitive skin made you shiver. “Ah… perhaps, some time ago, I heard you laugh. It wasn’t one of your villainous laughs. It sounded so nice, so real, I felt my chest ache.”

“And you’ve been nothing but a smitten kitten after that, eh. Had no idea my charms worked on you.” You felt the soft, smooth surface of his lips kiss up along your neck, slowly, to your jaw. You closed your eyes and moaned so quietly, you barely heard yourself. “What an irresistible treat you are. I spied you, time ago, removing your helmet to show your true face. I hadn’t any idea you were a little woman beneath all that plate. It was your cold and witty behaviour that won me over.”

You whimpered as you felt his teeth lightly rake across your skin. He spoke quickly after, before you had time to react to his words.

“Why don’t we take this to a secluded perch? I’ve got all manner of linen throws and pillows I… well, I imagine I’ll not be selling anytime soon.”

“But it’s so warm near the fire…” you whined.

Patches quietly laughed that same laugh you fell in love with. “Never fear, I’ll keep you nice and warm, my darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re liking these one-shots and small stories, I asked that you share this fic around! Thank you all so much!


	15. Patches Goes on an Adventure - (Part 1)

“Are you so certain of this, young one?”

“Most certainly!” The undead being in robes clapped their gauntleted hands together. “The polished marble floor, intricate panels along the walls, the solid gold decor-“

_Solid gold decor._

It was almost as if someone spoke the activation phrase nestled deep inside his brain. Patches peaked his head over the half broken wall before him, to spy a hooded figure in magical looking robes, and shiny steel greaves and gauntlets, speaking to a man who sat comfortably in the grass. He wore an impossibly large brimmed hat.

“-I didn’t venture deep, but I’m absolutely sure it lives up to the archives belonging to an esteemed Duke.”

If the bells weren’t already ringing in his ears, this definitely set them off.

The man in the large hat, one known as Master Logan, hummed. “I suppose it be worth a look. If anything, it will only be another step closer.”

“But Master,” Patches heard the young mage call his name with insistency. “in my search, I found those horrid crystal growths you warned me about, and a poor man who succumbed to their singing. He attacked me on sight, and I… well, I had him fell’d.”

“Then that is certainly the place I’m looking for.” Master Logan nodded from his cross-legged position on the ground. “Well done.”

The mage seemed to titter by how their shoulders moved. “The journey there was made much easier, coincidentally following the steps of the Chosen Undead. He made slaying all the crazed beings less of a hassle.”

“Well, my dear, I say you deserve a rest either way. Go soak up warmth by the fire.” Master Logan gestured lazily towards the sword plunged in flame.

Patches watched as the mage bowed their head eagerly. “Thank you, Master.”

They passed by Patches, unbeknownst to them that the snake of a man peered his nose over the wall. Once he was sure Logan fell into one of his “contemplative states”, or most commonly called napping, Patches followed the mage quietly to the collapsed wall they sat upon near the fire.

They stared off dreamily into the dancing flames. Patches cleared his throat loudly, pulling them from their reverie.

“Hello there!” Patches greeted with a wave and his artificially nice tone. “I’ve seen you around this fire a few times, and I couldn’t help but hear you know the Chosen Undead. You’re a friend of his too, eh?”

“Oh!” The plated mage sounded a tad surprised. “Why yes, yes I am friends with him. And you are…?”

“Dearie me!” Patches chuckled and slapped a palm to his forehead, making light of his forgetful ways. “Now where are my manners? My name is Patches,” he extended a hand out for the plated mage, and slightly bowed at the waist. “Trusty Patches.”

The mage shook his hand, then retracted their hand to pull back the oversized hood. Their helmet remained on their shoulders. “My name is Ailbe. Ailbe the Aphasic.”

“Aphasic?” Patches tilted his head. “You seem to be understanding me well.”

Ailbe chuckled, with only a trace of nervousness. “Well… that’s a long story. I can understand verbally now, but alas, I cannot read or write.” They cleared their throat. “Was there anything I could assist you with, Patches?”

“I overheard you talking about the duke’s archives. That place is nothing but trouble - nothing but danger! I’ve been there before, you know. I’m… acquainted with the goings on in that place. Do you plan on going there again?”

“Yes, in due time.” Ailbe directed their gaze to the fire. They were an odd one; a smaller being, a borderline feminine voice, yet nothing gender descript about them. “Oh!” They looked back to the man standing mere feet away. “You mention you’ve been there before. I’m… I’m sort of fetching things for Master Logan, as a way of thanking him for teaching me sorceries. Is there any way I could request your aid? Those crystals they- they frighten me.”

Patches rubbed his chin and hummed rather dramatically. “Well, it is a treacherous journey there…”

“Is that your armour?” Ailbe pointed to Patches’ leather gear. “I know where I can get you better armour - armour that will fit you. I’ll also pay you; coins, souls, knowledge, whatever you wish. I would greatly appreciate your company, as well as someone who can read. I’m sure it will come in handy in a place like the archives.”

A smile stretched across Patches’ face. “You drive a hard bargain, mage. Alright. You’ve got a deal.” Patches stretched out a hand, to which Ailbe graciously shook, sealing their deal. “Best we shove off sooner than later. I’ve still got a merchant gig to attend to.”

“Oh- Oh you’re absolutely right!” Ailbe shot up from the ruined wall they sat upon. “Alright, okay, I’ll- I’ll grab your armour first, then gather our supplies. Will you still be here when I return?”

“Have no fear. We shook on it, so I’ll wait around for you.”

“Wonderful! I will return soon… er, Patches, was it? Farewell, for now.” Ailbe offered Patches a strange gesture he had not seen before. Hesitant to return it, he simply offered a wave, and saw the mage off towards the aquaduct. 

Patches waited patiently for the mage to be out of sight, before releasing the dark laughter he had bubbling up inside him. A mage, young and too naïve for the world, as well as illiterate, willingly leading him to untold treasures? Oh how fate served him opportunities on a silver platter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for updating so often. I just have too many ideas!


	16. Patches Goes on an Adventure - (Part 2)

“It’s not too heavy, is it?” Ailbe called from the other side of the wall. Directly to their right, the strange primordial serpent snored loudly. The pool of drool from Frampt’s open mouth grew exponentially, and nearly swallowed Ailbe’s boot.

Patches turned from around the corner to show off the armour. He looked over his shoulders and down his legs, inspecting the way the scorched silver plate fit his appendages nicely. “Feels like a second skin, but have you any idea what this is? Where the hell did you get this armour?”

“Oh, I… well, this is a bit embarrassing,” Ailbe rubbed the small bit of skin that revealed itself between their cloak and helmet, at the back of their neck. “but I took it from the body of a knight I killed. He attacked without reservation, so I believe he may have hollowed.”

“You-“ Patches’ face turned to one that was a mixture of horror and awe. “-killed a black knight?”

“A… black knight? The armour is black, so I suppose that makes sense. But I am so glad the armour fits! I’m sorry, I didn’t find a helmet to go with it.”

Patches forced a smile to surface onto his face after moments of staring at Ailbe, gobsmacked at the fact they killed a black knight - presumably by themself. This mage was proving to have layers beneath being young and ignorant. That power would serve useful for clearing out hostile undead, however, it made the idea of treachery a little more complicated.

“That’s… alright- ahem! You have our gear?” Patches asked as he disappeared behind the wall to collect his shield and winged spear.

“Scrolls, staff - yes, I believe that’s everything.” Ailbe listed the items off their fingers.

“Say,” Patches began as he hoisted his shield over his back, then turned the wall corner to face down the mage. “you can’t read, yeah? What’s with the scrolls?”

“Master Logan told me what each scroll reads for what spell, and labelled them certain colours accordingly.” Ailbe tied the extra sack to a thigh strap on their armour, and pocketed the scrolls in their belt. They held their staff - contrived and twisted around a channeling gem at the top of their makore wood staff. All of which look absolutely priceless in Patches’ eyes - but not priceless enough to not sell.

Deciding to take the shortest path possible, all in thanks to the Chosen Undead, they headed toward the dilapidated elevator that would bring them up into the church. As they travelled, the two conversed idly about the day, themselves (as much as Patches was willing to divulge), and the payment he would be receiving.

Upon arriving to the grand steps of the archives, Ailbe pulled out their staff to arm themselves, as well as a short sword in their off hand.

“It’s strange,” Ailbe spoke quietly, staring up at the intricate stonework of the arched entrance. “but the very first time I came here, it seemed as though a… barrier of sunlight forbade my trespassing.” They looked towards Patches, who kept his eyes fixed upwards. “How was it you managed to slip through the barrier?”

“How-“ Patches absentmindedly repeated, before cluing into Ailbe’s inquiry. “Oh! I eh, went another way, actually. Through a window, out the other side.”

Ailbe tilted their head. Their raised eyebrow was kept hidden beneath the helmet and hood of their cloak. “The archives border a cliff.”

“No, no. There’s a… yeah, there’s a courtyard with a low wall. Easy enough to scale, but the entrance would be a breeze. Which,” Patches gestured, stretching an arm out to guide the way inward. “shall we go through?”

Ailbe looked up at Patches and nodded. He wasn’t much of a sight before, but since donning the blackened knight armour, his intimidation factor increased incredibly.

“Would you mind leading us in? It’s… the crystals, you see, they-“

But Patches held up a hand to silence Ailbe. “Say no more. Just keep that staff of yours ready, eh?”

Ailbe nodded with conviction, and followed Patches into the archives. To this surprise, the little mage wasn’t kidding. The floor was a pristine marble, littered with well crafted bookcases, drawing desks, tea chairs and solid gold armillary spheres. Trinkets, silver quills and refined ink lined the drawing desks of the entry room that was located past the long hallway.

Ailbe pulled down their hood upon entry into the tall room. “Perhaps Dawde was here.” They pointed at the corpses crumpled onto the floor, scorched with deep, horrible black burns. “He’s the only one I know to use such dark sorceries.”

“Dawde?”

Ailbe turned to Patches with a questioning look. “Dawde. The Chosen Undead. I thought you said you were friends with him.”

“Ah!” Patches rubbed the back of his exposed head. “De! I er, I haven’t used his full name in some time. Sorry about that, love. Shall we press on?”

Ailbe politely bowed their head, and allowed Patches to stalk on first.

He eyed up the small trinkets that lined the room. Nothing of true worth, but he knew they had barely entered the archives. No, for this was merely a customary entry hall.

“How far did you get, again?” Patches asked as they stepped onto the wooden elevator and pulled the lever. It was unfortunate this elevator was encapsulated by walls of stone. The fall would prove deadly.

“To the top.” Ailbe said, pointing a finger upwards. “There are other floors, but all other ways were locked tight. If Dawde truly is here, perhaps he found a way to open all those doors.” They pondered, more to themselves than answering Patches.

Lo, at the top of the elevator, corpses steaming with black gashes littered the floor. Ailbe smiled brightly, not that Patches could see it.

“Oh! Look,” they gestured to the bodies and proclaimed excitedly, “Dawde is here! The magic residue looks relatively fresh!”

Patches stared at them with a raised brow. “Yeah… Erm, how old are you again?”

“Old enough to know better.” They answered plainly, before prancing up the short set of stairs to peer into the first room of the incredibly grand archives. “Hm… All the doors are still shut, but everything else is dead.” They noted. “Peculiar. He could be at the top.” Upon seeing all the beings dead, Ailbe sheathed their sword but kept their staff out.

A stand-off with the Chosen Undead was not on Patches’ to-do list, nor was it ever going to be. He shouldered his spear and shield, and untucked the sack he had hidden away in the hollow of his chest plate. “Right. While you mutter on to yourself, I’m going to collect books.”

“You’re pilfering the archives?”

Patches tucked the woven sack right back into his chest plate. _Damn it._ He threw on a smile and responded in a higher pitched tone, “No, no! Collect was a bad word - I’m only going to skim! Bit of a scholar myself, you know.” He gave a small laugh before waltzing up to the nearest bookshelf. Once his back was turned, that smile fell to a grimace.

_Need to keep this brat around a bit longer_ , Patches thought to himself as he eyed the words on the spines of the many tomes in the archives. Glistening metallic bookends would catch his eye, as well as iridium blue, magical trinkets, _If that Chosen bastard really is here, little mage can vouch for me. He might even have a key on him to the rest of the archives. Not to mention both him and the brat are loaded with valuables._

The thought of Ailbe’s staff and scrolls, as well as robes and shiny armour tickled Patches with delight.

_Dawde_ , Patches snickered quietly. _What a stupid name._

Just as Patches was about to pull the first valuable spell book off the incredibly tall bookshelf, the mage he was beginning to loathe called out his name. Patches sighed.

“Up here!” Ailbe waved from over the handrail. Patches climbed the stairs to meet Ailbe, all the while noticing this elevator was even taller, and without any walls to catch an unsuspecting mage from tumbling over.

“Right you are, love.” He put on a chipper tone as they stepped onto the elevator. “All the way to the top.”

As the elevator made its way up, Patches began, “Y’know Alebee-“

“Ailbe.”

“-sure. You’re beginning to grow on me.” Patches casually placed a heavy hand on their shoulder and gave them a friendly shake; testing out their balance. It only took a brutish shove to cause Ailbe to stumble somewhat. “Y’don’t see too many young ones wandering around here… You are young buck, right?”

Ailbe placed a finger to the edge of their helmet and hummed. “...I suppose to someone like Master Logan, I would be considered young. I am an adult, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It’s not, but all the more better to know. You and I - I can see us being chummy.” He gave Ailbe another playful shake, this time throwing them off balance enough for their heel to collide into the railing of the ascending elevator. “Oops! Hehe, sorry about that, friend.”

“That’s alright.” Ailbe said.

Good, good. The mage would make pushing them over no issue at all, especially now they were buying into the façade of a budding friendship. But the mage still had a use, Patches knew. For now. 

Patches stepped off first, guiding the mage past the dead, crystallized body laying face down. He made note to return and steal the sorry sod’s armour.

“Just through here you wanted to go, yeah?” He pointed towards the crystalline hall. Ailbe nodded meekly.

He didn’t understand what they were so scared of. Sure they made a weird tingling noise, but that was really all there was. The protruding point was sharp, too, he supposed. As they climbed the stairs, Ailbe nearly clinging to Patches’ body, he could see a slow rolling fog seeping out of an archway.

He took a step in, then-

-

The cold light appeared as blurry orbs in his vision. His entire body ached, as if all his muscles had attrified. He let out a strangled groan as he attempted to move his leg, and orient himself along the cold, flat surface he laid upon. His vision slowly clarified, to reveal that the roof above his head was made of wood, and just out of the corner of his vision were tall iron bars.

His recollection was hazy, at best. He remembered an elevator, luminous crystals, and a white figure. Something was approaching him, a blinding light, until-

_Ailbe._

Patches struggled to manoeuvre his shoulder around to get an elbow beneath his torso. He let out a quiet, pained moan before propping himself up slightly - but then he stopped himself, still as a statue. A being with the body of a man but the head of an enormous cobra, leaned against the bars of what now looked to be a mostly wooden cell. It’s back was against the bars, and it made a low, rhythmic hiss. It almost seemed to be snoring.

Slowly, as not to disturb the joints of his armour, Patches leaned against his elbow just enough to flip himself over onto his stomach. It was then he saw, slumped in the corner of the cell much like a doll, was Ailbe, covered almost entirely in crystals.

A wash of terror, then relief, passed over Patches. That saved him the trouble of killing the rather powerful mage later, and left him the duty of stripping their corpse. Patches gave his legs an experimental stretch. They ached, but were able to move them enough to crawl slowly towards Ailbe’s corpse. He pulled the cloth sack from their thigh holster and began to fill it with the scrolls and enchanted little accessories they had hidden away in an interior pouch of their armour.

He jerked away when he heard the body moan.

The poor bastard isn’t dead after all.

Patches reached around for the dagger he kept strapped across his lower back, but ultimately stopped when he realized the likelihood of leaving the archives alone and alive were slim, by the fact his body ached like never before, and his spear and shield were absent.

He abandoned the idea of stabbing Ailbe to death and set to work removing their hood and unclasping their helmet and removing the balaclava. Out tumbled pale hair, and the right side of their face had a light dusting of the same crystals that encased the rest of their armour.

“Oi.” Patches whispered to them and rubbed the crystals off their skin with his thumb. “Can you hear me?”

He could see movement from beneath their closed eyes. Gently he pulled at one of their eyelids, to reveal a foggy cornea had appeared over their pupil, and their eye rapidly moving all around.

The crystals. His memory came to, and he recalled how they climbed the curved stairway polluted with crystals, then came to an astronomy room containing a gargantuan white creature. There was a flash of light, but Ailbe pushed past him, lifting their staff to block him from a direct hit. He could hear a very faint hum emanating from the crystals. They were driving Ailbe mad.

Quickly Patches set to work, stripping Ailbe of as much armour as modestly possible, and brushing off what crystals he could.

“Come on, love. You need to wake up!” He urged quietly in their ear. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a cell with a crazy mage and all their spells. 

He gripped Ailbe’s shoulders, and began to shake them. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon-“ He shook them, getting progressively violent. “-just wake. The fuck. Up!”

Ailbe’s neck snapped back from the final harsh shake, bashing the back of their bare head against the wooden wall of the cell. He gasped in quiet shock and released the grip on their shoulders, and turned his gaze to the snake man against the bars. Thankfully, the bang of Ailbe’s head against the wall didn’t pull it from sleep.

“Patches…?”

Patches turned back to look as Ailbe groggily stirred. An unarmed hand slowly lifted to rub the back of their head.

He couldn’t help the shaky grin that rose to his lips. “D’you know you got a reset button back there?”

“I… what?”

“Eh… nevermind. You need to stand.”

But Ailbe gave a lazy shake of their head. “No, I- I’m really tired.”

Patches grabbed their chin and jerked their head upwards to stare into their eyes. One of their pupils remained stagnant, while the other dilated rapidly. At least the foggy corneas were gone. “Might’ve given you a concussion, or… something.”

Patches laid Ailbe back gently into the corner of the cell, then shakily stood, using the walls as support. “Don’t make a sound.” He whispered to Ailbe, who nodded and lulled their head to the side.

Steadily regaining balance, Patches snuck close behind the snake man who leaned against the bars. On its belt, he noticed an iron key. Pulling out his dagger, he stepped closer ever yet, readying an arm. He thrusted an arm between the bars, strangling the now wide awake and struggling snake man, keeping it still enough to ram the length of his dagger through to where (he guessed) it’s kidneys were, until it fell limp.

Patches allowed its body to crumple to the ground, but not before plucking the key off its body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors. It’s 4am.


	17. Patches Hates Clerics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...but why does he hate clerics so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: yes, this one-shot does contain lore-breaking concepts. The game lore is vague enough that it’s not a big deal ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Not every undead can remember their first death; the terrifying awakening, feeling cold bite at your limbs despite the very quiet beating of a heart beneath your chest, the lingering pain of a deathly blow or the dull, phantom throbbing from within your cranium. However one may have discovered their curse, Patches remembers his, clearly. Vividly, in fact, for it is the driving force that keeps the inevitable hollowing at bay.

Not often does Patches have time to sit in one place, only for the reason that idle waiting brings idle pondering, mostly about the past. It wasn’t within his nature to think about the past. Straight as an arrow, Patches marched on through the times and realms…

...but there was one memory he stopped to think about whenever he was high above the world, gazing over the expanse of misty mountains, or far below the ground, in awe at the vast cave systems that seemed to arch upwards forever. The memory of his first death, and what his curse brought upon him.

Patches - it wasn’t his birth name. There was an ancient tradition that undead would shed their given name in life to embrace the curse that would rebirth them. Truth be told, he was never a fan of his given name, but that didn’t matter. Patches in life wasn’t too different from Patches in death, save for a burning hatred that fuelled him. He was a con man of sorts; acquiring his goods by questionable means and dispersing them back to the very rich folk he would pilfer, all for, at the very least, a ten percent price increase. The unfortunate folk Patches came from would only pay an incredibly small fraction of the price.

Word had gotten around one day of Patches’ shady ways. Selling his goods in the capital, several of his targets and customers approached him with the accusation of theft when Patches had foolishly missed a small engraving on a ring. There wasn’t time for an arrest. By the time guards had pulled them away, there was nothing left to do but to wait for someone to claim his beaten form and wait for him to die.

Out of fear of further abuse and demonization, none of his own stepped forth to care for him until death. Only one stepped forward; a lower ranked member that followed the Way of White. In an effort to ascend the ranks and appear holier in spirit than reality, a figure draped in white robes and a veil took Patches in to their own private quarters below the church they attended.

This Way of White disciple was certain Patches would pass away in a matter of hours due to his injuries.

Tucked away in the disciple’s bed, wounds covered in a salve to numb the pain, Patches laid coming in and out of consciousness.

Waking up for unconsciousness, Patches’ head lulled to the side of the pillow to gaze up at the disciple with tired eyes. The skin around his eyes were blackened to the point blood pooled in the corner of his eyes, and his nose was bent into an L shape. The cuts around his face were bandaged..

“Oh,” Patches chuckled painfully. “is that an angel come to take me away?”

The disciple returned his pained laugh with a gentle one. “Perhaps. You may call me Sariel.”

“Sariel...” Patches repeated the name. “Are you… Are you one of those church fellows?”

Sariel nodded, the pure white veil moving lightly with her head. “I am.” Sariel answered quietly. “I am to make sure you drift off in peace.”

“Beaten, was I?” Patches interrupted himself with a rather violent cough, producing blood upon his lips. Sariel reached for a cloth in the stand beside her bed and dabbed the dark liquid off his paling lips. She placed the cloth on the nightstand. “Would say it’s karma,” he wheezed out the last of his cough. “but those bastards do nothing but tread on us smaller folk.” A thought occurred to him. “Why wasn’t I arrested?”

Sariel forced a pleasant smile upon her face. She appeared of fair heritage, as though she descended from the very people who thought to beat the poor man. “The Gods smiled upon you, and willed the guards to grant you mercy.” She added, “I could not let a blessed child lay dead in the streets.”

“A blessed child,” Patches mocked the disciples' words as well as he could. He spat, “oh, blessed child, my arse.” He couldn’t help the slight glare he gave his caretaker. “You know miracles.” He stated rather than asked. “Can’t you use them on me?”

“No,” she lied. “I’ve tried already. I am sorry, but you are beyond our healing.”

It was almost as if Patches visibly paled at Sariel’s words. He rolled his head back into the centre of the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as he let out a faint sigh. “I see.”

“Have you any family?” Sariel inquired.

Patches shook his head only slightly. The queasy pang of guilt that slapped the side of her stomach caused Sariel to falter in her saintly appearance by frowning. As quickly as the frown appeared, it dissipated into a small, apathetic smile.

“Might I take your hand?”

He didn’t bother to look at her. Blackness bordered his vision. He only nodded.

Sariel slid her gloved hand below the covers of the bed and gently grasped at Patches’ hand. He whined when she attempted to bring his hand out.

“Sorry- I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to the dying man in her bed.

She slowly, carefully, pulled his nearest hand out just enough to reveal his bruised fingers - no doubt from fighting back. Sariel removed the glove of her right hand and placed it in Patches’. Her other hand dove into the leather pouch bound to the long waist belt of her robes, and produced a small, lace talisman. She mouthed her prayer, keeping the holy words to herself until a small golden glow slipped from between her fingers and danced across Patches’ palm. He exhaled through his nose, and let out a quiet moan of relief.

“Are you in pain?” When Patches weakly shook his head, Sariel silently sighed. “Drift off, now. You’re safe.”

She waited patiently for his breathing to settle into a light, even rhythm, before taking her leave of the chair by the bed. She bunched up the skirt of her robe in her hands to ascend the stairs, leading up from the shared dormitories in the basement of the church, up into the small, empty kitchen in the back of a long hallway, and finally made it to the nave of the temple.

There across the way, before the altar, stood a tall, broad figure in identical robes to Sariel, all except a golden sash tied around the waist and the lack of veil covering the short, clean cut of the figure.

Sunset bathed the incredibly tall church in orange, and seeped into the sanctuary through the tall window lining the upper walls, just below the belfry.

The man turned as he heard Sariel approaching. The sallow man smiled patiently at Sariel, and extended his arm as though to beckon her closer. He was one of the middle-aged priests practicing in the capital’s church; hair thick with silver. He was also one of the more renowned priests, infamous for taking in personal students and building them up to a saintly status. Father Sathariel had taken in many, but few climbed the ladder.

“Sariel,” he greeted warmly. “how is our most unfortunate patient?” Sathariel outstretched a hand for his disciple to take, and pulled her closer to his body to gaze down on her.

“Dying, Father,” Sariel welcomed both his hands in hers. She glanced over her shoulder, assuring they were alone. “just as planned.”

“Excellent.” He said. “I’ll be sure word gets out of your saintly ways. You’ll ascend soon, dear daughter.”

Sariel’s soft smile fell to a look of concern. “Father,” she started. “what- what if he doesn’t pass in time for curfew?”

The tall priest chuckled and lightly dragged his fingers across Sariel’s arm, up to her shoulder. “Oh, dear child,” He was nearly giddy. “you’ve been given several pillows. They are for more than just bedding.”

Sariel attempted to step away in disgust, but the priest’s grip held firm, and she was forced to play off her unsavoury reaction as mere shock of a delicate heart. “Oh, but- but Father-“

“Our Lord watches, dear waning angel,” Sathariel reminded her. “and who do you think acts as his eyes? Look at you,” he spoke low as he guided his disciple towards the altar to gaze at the mirror lined with gold that stood just behind it. It acted as a looking-glass of sorts, that allowed those who were of high enough status to attend church to peer into their silvery reflection and see godliness.

“Created in our Mother of Sunlight’s image,” Father Sathariel lifted Sariel’s chin with a finger, showing off her neck. He gently slid his fingers down her throat, feeling her gulp as he trailed down, just to stop at the neck of her robes. His other hand held hers firm, as to keep her from escaping his grasp. “yet moulded by me, with the love of our Lord. Don’t you wish to appease Him? There was such a reason I bequeathed you your angelic name, Hannalore.”

“Sariel!” Her eyes grew wide and frightful in the mirror’s reflection as she corrected the priest. An ominous grin began, but a warm smile took its place.

“And there she is, my dutiful girl - my devout love.” Sathariel removed his hand from his disciple’s throat to push aside the veil, and inhale the fragrant scent of her clean hair. “What will you do come sundown, and our patient hasn’t passed?” He asked from between her dark, wavy tresses.

“I… I will ease his burden.”

“You are so obedient,” he murmured himself. “so patient,” Sathariel pressed his nose further between her locks of hair, until the delicate sensation of his cold nose on her neck caused Sariel to shiver. “so willing.”

“Father!” Sariel nearly shouted as she darted out of his grasp. Sathariel’s brows shot up in surprise, and Sariel, only now realizing she had raised her voice, hurried her words along. “It’s- Well, it’s almost sundown. I… I must check on our patient.” She took a step back and her hands flew her chest. “And I must… I must free him from this mortal coil, now.”

Her words promising her duty were satisfactory to the priest. “Go now, my child.” Sathariel lifted a hand in farewell. “May he not pass in pain.”

-

Sariel lit the candle she held in the brass holder with a match, and gently placed it down on the bedside table. The entire room was black, all except the dim wash of flickering orange the candle gave off. The body in her bed was still. She held back her veil and hair and leaned over the body. She could hear his weak breath, and so fate had determined to turn the good disciple into a murderer.

Sariel gathered the skirt of her white robes and silently tip-toed toward the trunk at the foot of her bed. In it were extra sheets, blankets and pillows for the colder seasons. She plucked up an expensive pillow made from a fibre so dense, it didn’t keep any indents from nights of sleeping on it. She gently closed the trunk lid, as though to not wake the slumbering man in her bed, and with both hands now clutching the edge of the pillow tightly, she silently stepped towards the bed once more, careful not to stumble over her skirt.

She stood above him; her own body disrupting the candle’s light, casting her silhouette across the bed and up the wall. She held the pillow to her chest and pursed her lips. This… was not the first death to happen in care of the church, nor would it ever be the last.

It was then Sariel let out a breathy gasp. Amidst the silent conflict in her head, Patches’ head rolled to the side towards her, and his eyes opened half way; his bleak, unmoving stare remained fixed on the space before him.

Sariel broke down upon meeting his stare. The pillow fell from her grasp and she collapsed in a fit of tears. She sobbed, pleaded for forgiveness from not just Patches, but from Lord Gwyn as she gathered his closest, cold hand into both of her own.

Although not the first death to happen in care of the church, it was the first she had caused - from her neglect.

She stayed with him, wetting the sheets of her bed with her tears until morning rays peaked through the stairway that lead into the shared accommodations. She had stopped sobbing hours ago, and instead laid her head against the side of the bed Patches’ body laid upon and simply stared, much like his body, into the space before her.

“Sister Sariel?” A meek voice called from the kitchen above. “Are you awake? Breakfast is ready.”

It was a fellow nun’s voice that stirred her from her staring contest with the void. She slowly released her hold on his hand and rubbed away the dry tear streaks on her cheeks. She knew Father Sathariel would be joining them, as he did every morning, and she knew he would scold her for showing such empathy for a low born.

Sariel pulled herself up off the floor with the edge of the bed. She paid his body a glance.

She stiffened. His body appeared withered and stained dark with decay. She ripped off the layers of sheets and blankets, just enough to reveal the growth of veins and twisted flesh that stemmed from the left side of his bare chest.

The Darksign.

She dropped the sheets then ran for the stairs with her skirt in bunches and screamed out for the other nuns. She tripped up the last step of the stairs while everyone surrounded her.

Sariel’s face, scrunched up in disgust and her tears flowing again to rid her innards of the strong empathetic feelings she once felt for Patches, she cried, “Call for the followers of Allfather Lloyd! He- He’s cursed! It’s an Undead!”

-

“...and that, my dear, is why I despite you lot.”

The young nun’s gloved hand shot up to cover her mouth as she gasped. Patches solemnly nodded as he reached the end of his tale. Her eyes glimmered with tears.

“I- I am so terribly sorry for what they did to you, sir. Please, we are not all like that, and I apologize profusely on their behalf.” Her voice wavered as she spoke.

This nun - Patches couldn’t be bothered to remember her name - had to be no older than nineteen. She was still so young and starry-eyed, and as Patches guessed correctly, still terribly brainwashed into believing the holy ways of the Clergy.

Stalking around, scavenging items to pawn off when he found himself low on souls, Patches noticed a slender figure in a cream robe, wandering about in the dark. He was grave robbing, and it seemed as though the little nun had gotten herself all turned around in the dark. By chance, she was all alone, and ever the clever fiend, Patches took this moment to strike. He approached stand-off-ish, accusing her of being a snooty cleric. The nun, a bleeding heart of a woman, stayed to convince him otherwise. Thus Patches spun a tale of holy deceit that would put some of the blame on the nun’s shoulders.

Patches shook his head and tut’d. They sat near an outcrop, overlooking the bubbling expanse of lava in the distance. “I’m afraid that just won’t cut it. Weren't you listening? Words always prove empty.”

“Oh!” The nun clasped her hands together in a plea. “Please, there must be a way I can instill faith in you once more!”

Patches nearly let his grin slip through the façade.

“Well,” Patches started, “I don’t-“

He stopped himself so suddenly and tilted his head, as if to strain his hearing. “Do you hear that?”

A look of worry flashed across the nun’s face. “N-No, I don’t! What is it?”

“Hmph. Maybe I can hear it better because of my big ol’ ears, but it sounds like… ah! Sounds like screaming!”

He turned around towards the various sacks of items he had looted. He waved towards the nun with a growing look of concern across her face. “Be a dear and look over the side for anyone, won’t you? My eyes-“ he stopped to laugh, “-they’re not what they used to be. I have my handy lantern, here, somewhere.”

Anxious, but more than willing, the nun scooted close to the ledge, grabbing the edge of the outcrop and leaning down. She squinted, the contrast between lava and pure darkness proving difficult on her eyes.

“I-I don’t see a thing! Perhaps-“ was it a reanimated skeleton she spied moving? Or a person?

The devious smile he kept reigned in reared itself the moment he turned away. Oh, there was nothing else on this earth that gave him such pleasure like punishing the ill-moraled. He slowly stood from his crouched low position and turned, stepping slowly and lightly, as not to disturb any rocks along the outcrop. 

“-I think, yes! Why yes, that does look like a man down there!” The nun said, leaning over further.

“Well, well,” Patches cackled when he came close behind her, “do say hello to him for me, you rotten nun!”

A single kick was all it took to send the young woman tumbling over the edge to her death in the darkness.

He rubbed his hands together, as if disturbing any dirt off them, then nodded. It was fine work on his part. That little story, one he made up one day in case he needed to pull it out for whatever the reason, had just enough tragedy to pull on the heart strings. The guilt-ridden holy ones latched on to it like fishes to bait, and damn, it felt good to get them with it.

One more church member down. Hundreds more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not actually sure how long it takes to come-to after the first death, but I assumed several hours, up to a few days. I thank you for reading!


End file.
